Seal On My Heart
by Soledad
Summary: An AU, based on my own Boromir-series 'Fall Before Temptation', with the significant difference that this time Boromir doesn't die but gets the girl - well, sort of. Rating varies by chapters. WIP.
1. 1 Elrond's Council Part 1

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** PG-13 to R in different chapters, for violence, angst and m/m, _and_ eventually some m/f interaction. Nothing too graphic, though.

**Warnings:** If you are and Aragorn fan, you would do better not to read this. Also, if you are offended by same-gender relationships, please, go away. There are many other wonderful stories for you to read.

**Summary:** An AU, based on my own Boromir-series, ''Fall Before Temptation'', with the significant difference that this time Boromir does _not_ die, but gets the girl instead – well, sort of.

**Dedication:** To Isabeau of Greenlea, who had asked for this AU for a very long time. This is my gift to you, for all your support and for being such a good friend.

Oh, and happy birthday! By then, maybe this story would develop some interesting plot twists.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_Set me as a seal on your heart  
Set me as a seal on your arm  
For love is as stong as death  
Jealousy (or passion) is as harsh as the grave _

_Its flashes are flashes of fire  
A burning fire of God (or a raging flame).  
Many waters cannot quench love  
And rivers will not flood it. _

_If a man would give all the weath of his house for love  
He would be turned away in disgrace. _

_Song of Solomon 8:6-7 (Deborah's translation)_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**INTRODUCTION**

As the summary says, this is an AU. Unlike my other fics. However, it still follows the LOTR-canon to a certain extent, and so far I don't plan an alternate ending – not while the fate of the Ring is concerned, anyway. With the characters… well, you'll see - and hopefully enjoy.

The events are identical with my Boromir-storyline up til the Council of Elrond. It would do you good to read the earlier parts, at least ''The Bitter Gift of Compassion'', to understand why certain characters handle the way they actually do.

For those who won't do it (their loss), two basic facts are important to know:

1. I have postponed the Council of Elrond from the End of October 3018 (3rd Age) to the end of November. The date is not important for canon storyline, but the delay gave me enough time for personal interactions.

2. Somewhen during this time, Boromir and Elladan, Elrond's eldest, became lovers.

The story, however, continues differently from _that_ point on, starting with the Council of Elrond, where a slightly different Fellowship will be chosen. Still, there will be certain paragraphs that I take over from my canon stories, especially from "A Heart For Falsehood Framed", because I wanted to stay as close to the original as possible. I apologize in advance for those who know the original and promise that the big differences will come later (around chapter 5, according the plans).

Actually, the idea came from my faithful readers (all five or six of them, who are now officially declared to be my muses), especially from Isabeau of Greenlea, who literally begged me for an AU where Boromir and Elladan could live happily ever after.

So, in this story, there _will_ be a happy end. For the two of them, anyway. But be warned: this is still a very angsty fic, with lots of violence and several _other_ canon characters biting the grass (as we in Hungary would say; I'm told the correct English expression would be "biting the dust"). Not everyone of the modified Fellowship will live to see the Fall of Mordor, while other characters who were killed off by the Great Master will be alive and kicking. And since Merry and Pippin will be sent back to the Shire, _there_ will be some differences, too.

Also, in order to avoid quoting myself too much, I moved the dialogue a little away from the books and towards the movie – this is and AU-fic, after all!

I want to express my sincere thanks to Deborah for gifting the above-written translation from a verse of the Song of Solomon upon me. I have no English Bible, and I cannot do any poetry, not even in my own language. But this was the quote I wanted to stand before my story, and this is where the title of the story is from.

**ELROND'S COUNCIL**

**Rating:** PG – 13, for dirty Elven talk

**Author's notes: **This is an alternate version of the original first part of „A Heart for Falsehood Framed", concentrating more on the Boromir/Elladan relationship and partially from Boromir's POV. The main structure has been a little changed, too – but not overly so.

Many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_''You have ravished my heart  
with a glance of your eyes [...] _

_How sweet is your love [...], _

_how much better is your love than wine,  
And the fragrance of your oils than any spice!  
Your lips distil nectar [...], _

_honey and milk are under your tongue;  
the scent of your garments is like the scent of [Lebanon]'' _

_Song of Solomon, 4: 9-11_

**Part One**

The end of _narbeleth_(1) passed and _hithui_(2) came with cold winds and needle-sharp rains, turning the golden glow of Imladris to twilit grey, and even most Elves retreated into the confining safety of their houses, watching the changing of the season deep inside their airy rooms where the moody attacks of late autumn weather could not reach them, not even through the open archways that left one side of each room without protection.

Still, these days were probably my best ones since my early childhood. I cannot say that I was truly happy – for that I would have needed the love of the one who simply could not love me that way – but at least I found some sort of peaceful contentment in Elladan's love.

Even if it was only the comfort of flesh.

For we were, in many ways, truly alike, in spite of the countless centuries Elladan had already known, compared to the mere four decades I had seen. Of high birth we both were, growing up in the shadow of our frighteningly powerful fathers (and the Steward of Gondor, on his own account, was no less intimidating than the hero of the First Age), struggling to find our own path in a world where we both were considered outcasts – I for what my father called my twisted nature, he for the blood of mortal Men that flowed in his veins –, constantly compared to our more agreeable younger brothers, finding comfort only in the harsh, fleeting love of another men – or, in my case, occasionally in the joyless embrace of cheap war whores or desperate widows in half-destroyed settlings.

Indeed, we were much alike.

After our first, passionate night of lovemaking, Elladan went on with that customary (and, truth to be told, unnerving) Elvish eagerness to show me the wonders of Imladris – and wonders there were to be shown, no doubt about it! I am a lot less artistic than my brother, yet not blind to beauty, and Elladan took me to all the hiding places of his long-gone childhood: to ancient trees and crystal waterfalls, through twilit alleys and huge, shadowy halls full of old treasures where no-one had dwelt for hundreds of years.

To my mild dismay, Elladan also felt the need to introduce me to his friends who still dwelt in the valley – some permanently, others only in certain seasons, for they belonged to Gildor Inglorion's people, and it seemed to be their way that they traveled from one place to another all their long lives.

They were friendly enough to me, most of all his twin brother and Gildor's niece, the Lady Aquiel, if for naught else than for Elladan's sake, and to my great relief, they seemed to hold our relationship a natural one, unlike my own people. As the Lady Aquiel explained me, Elves cherished love in any form, and even marriages between people of the same gender were allowed.

Still, I felt a little ill at ease among all those tall, slender and elegant Elves – like a big oaf among light-footed deer. But my lover only laughed when I told him about my uneasy feelings and kissed me soundly before all eyes.

"A big oaf?" he repeated, and the others were laughing with him, the laughter of the Lady Aquiel ringing clear like a silver bell; "Nay, no oaf you are but a magnificent stallion whom I enjoy riding very much!"

Valar, I hate it when he makes me blush in public.

I am a child no more, yet he never fails to make me beet red.

A stallion, indeed!

Who would have thought that these cold and aloof Elves liked dirty talk?

And Elladan was not the only one! His twin brother was little better than he, having always a matching remark. Which was no wonder, considering that they had shared a womb and spent the last three thousand years in each other's company. They could read each other's thoughts effortlessly when they were in the mood of sharing.

They also looked very much alike – like mirror images of each other, identical and yet different. Also, Elladan had a slightly upturned nose – not overly so, but enough to make a barely visible difference between the two of them – making him less perfect than Elrohir, mayhap in Elven eyes… yet not in mine. For me, that little lack of perfection made him even more desirable.

Yes, I desired him still. That first night of shared passion only blunted the edge of my desperate hunger to love and to be loved, if not with the deepest feelings of the heart (for my heart belonged to my brother still), at least through the sharing of bodies.

And he seemed just as much in need as I was, for he came to me every night to share my bed and to share himself; and when I finally fell asleep, worn out and more content than I ever had been in my whole life, he would hold me in his arms and he would sing to me in the darkness, keeping the nightmares of blood and fire away.

During the day, we would sometimes ride out on the wondrous, light-footed Elven horses that were kept in airy, open stables at the north end of the valley. Elladan told me that they were thought to have descended from Nahar, the immortal white steed of Oromë the Great, and that no-where in Middle-earth were the likes of them to be found. Riding these beautiful steeds made me understand that Elladan's comparison actually had been a compliment – and not a small one.

Still, I hated it when he made me blush.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the early days of _hithui_ passed by in unexpected peace and the day of Elrond's Council arrived. Boromir woke early on that day, feeling somewhat anxious again, torn between excitement and foreboding at the thought that he would finally find out the meaning of what he came to think of as the Riddle of Doom. Elladan was already gone, for the sons of Elrond were meant to leave shortly after the Council and he had preparations to make.

Boromir got up and was ready in mere moments, and after a short breakfast he left the guest house to walk along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watch the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains. He stopped for a moment, glaring with wonder at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks and reminded him of the white locks of old Mindolluin, the great mountain of his homeland.

He suppressed a sigh, ordering the homesick feelings sternly back to the securely enclosed part of his mind from which they had crept forth and continued his way towards the porch that Elladan had shown him a day earlier.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''The council was held in a high glade among the trees on the valley-side far above the house. A falling stream ran at the side of the meeting place, and with the trickling and blubbing of the water was mingled the sound of many birds. There were 12 seats of carved stone in a wide circle, and behind them many other smaller seets of wood. The groud was strewn with many red and yellow leaves, but the trees above were still clothed with fading green; a clear sky of pale blue hung high above, filled with the light of morning.'' (HoMe 6: The Return of the Shadow, p. 395.)

Elrond was already there, of course, and several others were seated in silence about him. Boromir saw Glorfindel with several other counselors of Elrond's household, of whom he knew only Erestor, their chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Círdan the Shipwright only two days ago. 

Across from Elrond sat Gildor Inglorion, clad in a heavy, royal blue velvet robe, as his rank and birth demanded on such occasions, and there was also Legolas, clad in green and brown again, as a messenger from his father, the Elvenking of Northern Mirkwood.

But not all of the Council were Elves. Among Elrond's counselors Strider was sitting, in a golden-patterned silk shirt and a black velvet tunic; and Boromir saw the two Dwarves he had gotten a glimpse of on that feast several weeks ago, so alike in their looks that they could only have been father and son.

Hardly had he found a seat for himself between the venerable-looking, silver-haired ambassador of Dale and Halbarad, this time as richly clothed as all the others, when an all-too-familiar figure of an old man appeared in one of the arched doorways, wearing a long, grey coat and a big, grey hat; and leading what seemed to be a young, Elvish-looking boy by the hand. Yet the boy's clothes were anything but Elvish, and his feet were large and bare, covered with thick, soft brown curls, not unlike those upon his head.

Boromir was so amazed at this never-heard-of little creature that it took him a moment to recognize the grey-clad old man with that long, white beard and those deep, piercing eyes of his.

_Mithrandir! _he thought, full of awe,_ now I am certain that I have tumbled into something important – and possibly perilous. Every time the old wizard is involved, strange things are going to happen. What shall Father say when he learns that Mithrandir's path has led to Imladris, just as mine has?_

Now the Lord Elrond rose from his seat and addressed the Council, saying:

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You are summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands on the brink of destruction. You will unite or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom."

Then he drew the boy to a seat by his side and added, "Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent."

With that, Elrond opened the Council, and it went on and on, seemingly with no end at all. Much was said of the events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains. It seemed that the long arm of Mordor had already reached out to take the remaining free lands in a tight grip, and there was little hope that they would be able to break that grip, ever. For it appeared, that even the hearts of the most resilient Dwarves of the far away Lonely Mountain were troubled.

Three times had they already been visited by the messengers of the Dark Lord, who lured, then threatened them to win their service in one thing above all: to find a hobbit who had apparently stolen a ring from him – which, to Boromir's ears, who had faced Mordor's wrath all his life, sounded rather unlikely. So must have thought the Dwarves, too, for they refused to answer the messengers, neither aye nor nay – knowing though, that they would come back before the ending of the year.

"Messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale," the silver-haired old Man on Boromir's right added, "and he is afraid. If the peril grows too great, he may yield. For already war is gathering on our eastern borders…"

Boromir felt the weight of darkness growing upon his heart. What the old Man was telling, made all his hopes – to find counsel and allies and maybe even some help in the far North – fade into nothingness. The North had enough worries itself, it seemed. He would fail, and this time his shining city might fall with him.

He shivered, wishing to be at home once again. Whatever upcoming doom threatened Middle-earth, he wanted to face it at home, protecting his own people – and his brother – with his last breath.

Yet it would have done no good for him to show his fears before these people. Early had he learnt in the court of his father that a leader had to show strength, did he want to master his duties as he should. So he gathered himself again and forced his straying mind to listen.

"You have done well to come," was Elrond saying to the troubled messenger of Dale. "You shall hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. You shall learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem."

Boromir shuddered again. Now the time had come that he was to learn the meaning of that cursed dream that had haunted both him and his brother ever since the last bridge of Osgiliath collapsed behind them. The dream that robbed Faramir his sleep, that crept over his heart with dark foreboding, that made him wake up screaming when he finally managed to fall asleep.

_Now, if the Valar grant it, it might be over_.

"That is the purpose for which you are called hither," Elrond continued, with that annoying calm of his kin. "Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world."

And saying that, he looked straight at Boromir, as if his next words had been directed at him, and him only.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I shall begin that tale, though others shall end it."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Then all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago… and about the Last Alliance of Elves and Men that managed to overthrow him – but at what cost!

"I was the herald of Gil-galad, and marched with his host," the Lord of Imladris said. "I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery; for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aiglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it for his own."

At this, Boromir suddenly felt as if a ray of sunlight fell through a broken window into a large, shadowy room. All the searching and guessing Faramir had done back home, at once became a whole new meaning.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" he cried. "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings, indeed."

"Alas! yes," said Elrond. "Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel. He took the Ring to treasure it. And soon he was betrayed by it to his death; and so it is named in the North Isildur's Bane…"

Elrond paused, looking at Boromir's unreadable face again, fearing how these tidings would touch the heart of a Man darkened already by the shadow of Mordor. When he continued, his voice became soft, almost gentle.

"Only to the North did these tidings come, and only to a few. Small wonder it is that you have not heard them, Boromir. From the ruin of the Gladden Fields, where Isildur perished, three men only came ever back. One of these was the esquire of Isildur who bore the shards of the Sword of Elendil; and he brought them to Valandil, the heir of Isildur, who being but a child had remained here in Imladris. But Narsil was broken and its light extinguished, and it has not yet been forged again."

"_That_ much I have already learnt," Boromir muttered under his breath, remembering his first encounter with the Lord of Imladris, shortly after his arrival.

But no-one listened to him, save maybe Strider, whose eyes never seemed to leave his face, and Elrond went on to tell the tale of the North and South Kingdoms of Men. And once Elrond ceased, Boromir suddenly stood up, tall and proud before the Council, for he felt the need to speak.

"Give me leave, Master Elrond," he said, "first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come, as many of you might already know. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last."

He paused, looking around the cold, detached faces of all the Elves sitting there; then at the wide-eyed, clearly frightened face of that… _hobbit_? sitting between Elrond and Mithrandir, who seemed, at least, worried enough to listen; and finally at Strider, and their eyes met in a brief struggle of wills. And he continued, aiming his words directly at the Ranger.

"Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valor the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West."

"And yet the hour of our fall, maybe, is not far away," he added bitterly. "The nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. Osgiliath has fallen, finally, the last bridge destroyed. We are fighting with our backs against the wall."

"Is that why you came here to find the meaning of a dream that was sent to you and your brother as a foresight?" Legolas asked, speaking for the first time. "The right place you have chosen, it seems. For you have learnt of _Isildur's Bane_, finally, and what it might bring for us all."

"Have I?" Boromir asked. "I have heard unclear words and long-winded tales that I had learnt as a small child already – but naught has been said so far that would help me to solve the words of the riddle that led me to this place."

"Then we should speak even more openly, I deem," Elrond replied; and he looked at the little creature on his side.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo!" said Mithrandir solemnly. "The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

_Oh, but I do understand it, Mithrandir_, the son of Denethor thought, while the small, trembling hand of the hobbit held up the gleaming and flickering golden circle. _I understand it better than you might believe. 'Tis not the first finely-plotted game of power I have seen in my life… being the son and Heir of one of the greatest game-masters of Middle-earth. Indeed, I understand all too well what has been going on for years here, in the North_.

"Behold _Isildur's Bane_!" said Elrond.

The others turned towards the little, bare-footed creature, who put down the Ring on the round, stone table in the middle of the Council's circle, seeming strangely relieved to get rid of it, and they murmured in amazed and frightened voices:

"So 'tis true – the Ring of power – the Doom of Man has returned."

Boromir's eyes glinted as he gazed at the golden thing before him.

"The Halfling!" he muttered. "Now I have all parts of the Riddle of Doom that sent me here from the far South. 'Tis a gift, a gift to the foes of Mordor. Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of my people are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him."

But Strider shook his head sadly and answered, "You cannot wield it. None of us can. The ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

"And who are you and what have you do with Minas Tirith?" Boromir asked, looking suspiciously at the lean face of the Ranger.

For he did not forget the feast that had been held to greet the return of Elladan and Elrohir – where Strider had been clad like an Elven-prince, sitting at the side of Elrond's daughter, the Lady Undómiel of the songs, like someone who had the right to be that close to her.

"What would a Ranger know of this matter?" he added, in a voice full of venom.

"He is no mere Ranger," Legolas corrected sharply.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," said Elrond; "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

Boromir glared at the Ranger in disbelief… not that he could not have imagined him as a descendant of the Northern Kings, for Strider certainly showed all the outer signs of high Númenorean blood – he was only reluctant to accept the possibility that someone from that bloodline would still be walking the earth. The North-kingdom had fallen eighty years earlier than the last King of Gondor had vanished, after all.

"_This_ is Isildur's Heir?" he repeated doubtfully.

"And Heir to the throne of Gondor," Legolas quietly added. "You owe him your allegiance."

Strider – no, Aragorn – seemed uncomfortable with the Prince of Mirkwood speaking up on his behalf.

"Not now, Legolas," he murmured in Sindarin, thinking probably that Boromir would not understand.

But Boromir only sat there, unmoving, for what seemed to him forever. Now he believed to understand the game that was played here – and Elrond's role in it – and the need of secrecy that had kept him in the dark so long. Yet he thought it wiser not to show his full understanding, and he only stated in a low, but very clear voice.

"Gondor _has_ no King. Gondor _needs_ no King."

No-one but Elrond, Mithrandir and Aragorn himself seemed to have heard this statement, and the deep eyes of the wizard became even more worried for a moment.

"And even if the White Queen of the South would need a King again," Boromir continued, still keeping his voice dangerously low, but now audible enough for the other members of the Council, "what good could a Sword that has been lying in shards for three thousand years do us?"

He looked at Aragorn with more than mere doubt in his eyes. The Ranger did not answer. But the other Halfling that was sitting aside (a very old and withered-looking fellow), suddenly stood and burst out impatiently something that maybe was meant to sound like a verse of forgotten lore, yet sounded clumsy, like a lullaby rhyme, in Boromir's ears. Nay, his nannies knew lullaby rhymes that were much better than this.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall the blade that was broken:_

_The crownless again shall be King._

"Not very good perhaps," the battered old Halfling added (which, in Boromir's opinion, was an understatement), "but to the point – if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it."

He sat down with a snort. Boromir did not answer. The Halfling was of little importance for him, though it bothered him that the little goblin seemed to know everything he had told of himself in Elrond's house. Yet his true adversary was the one in that black velvet tunic and golden shirt.

Strider – _Aragorn, he reminded himself, say Aragorn, you get better used to it_ – felt his sharp gaze and turned to him.

"For my part I forgive your doubt," he said. _How gracious of you, Boromir thought_. "Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor.'' Which was absolutely true, too. ''The days of our House have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper, in a long line unbroken from father unto son, for many generations."

"Hiding in the wilderness like frightened children while the Stewards ruled the White City and kept the enemy at bay," Boromir countered in a low voice that only the Ranger could hear – or maybe some of the Elves, for Elrond gave him a sharp look, and Legolas seemed disturbed.

Aragorn frowned but controlled his rising anger. "You might see us like that. But this I will say to you, son of Denethor, ere I end. Lonely men we are, Rangers of the Wild, hunters – but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only."

"ow great a fool do you hold me, son of Arathorn, if that is who you truly are?" Boromir replied coolly. "Am I not the son and the Heir of the Steward? Minas Tirith has dealings with many countries far from our shores, and the Lord Denethor has often means to come to tidings lesser Men might not have. Well aware I am of the peril that is threatening us all – save the ones that Elven secrecy kept hidden from my eyes."

Aragorn sighed, clearly tired of his accusations.

"If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part," he said. "Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, you say? The North would have known little but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. And yet less thanks we have than you. Travelers scowl at us and countrymen gave us scornful names." His storm-grey eyes glinted. "But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I shall come to Minas Tirith."

_And we shall see just how much that will help anyone_, Boromir thought darkly, imagining the wrath of his father upon hearing these 'good' tidings. _Nay, son of Arathorn, you shall not simply come down South and take our precious city that our sires have cared for and kept safe and defended with their lives, ruling it with great strength and wisdom. If you believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion will step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart, then you are even bigger a fool than I have thought you_.

But out loud he only said this much, "_Isildur's Bane_ is found, you say. I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?"

"That shall be told," said Elrond.

"But not yet, I beg, Master," the older one of the Halflings said. "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me."

"I had not named you," said Elrond smiling. "But I shall do so, soon. Yet you were right about the passage of time. We shall take a short break from our Council – for much needs to be spoken of yet, and it could reach into the evening hours. We shall return here in one hour's time."

With that, he rose and left, and his counselors followed him. The others trailed out as well, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone behind. The Ranger, too, stood up and turned towards Boromir, but Denethor's son could not bear another word with him. So he turned away harshly and stomped out in silent fury.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I returned to my room in the guest house, trying to keep my temper under control, for much of what I had learnt so far made my blood boil with anger. Thinking of the way these Elves had lulled me into a half-dream of peace and safety while secretly working on taking my inheritance from me and putting that… that lowly Ranger on the throne of the greatest City of the Third Age…

"Oh, here you are," the soft, pleasant voice of my lover jerked me out of my dark thoughts.

Elladan stood in one of the open arches that served as windows and entrances alike. He wore the rough grab of the Rangers already, to conceal himself from prying eyes while on his way in the Wild, and his long, raven hair was bound in a tight ponytail on the back of his head. He looked annoyingly young and innocent, even for an Elf, and for some reason this angered me even more.

_Elves_, I thought in disgust, _what do they know about the struggles of short-living Men? What was it that awoke his interest in me? What might his part be in all this?_

"How did it go, I wonder?" Elrond's eldest continued; then, taking a look at my face, he frowned. "Not well, I guess."

"Oh, but it went better than your people might have expected," I replied in a voice that sounded unusually harsh, even to my own ears. "I have learnt many things, indeed. More, mayhap, than I was meant to learn – or even understand."

"And just _what_ have those things been, if you do not mind my asking?" Elladan raised an arched eyebrow even higher.

"I shall tell you in a moment," I said. "But first answer me a question of some importance: what in Middle-earth does your sister, the Lady Arwen, have to do with this Strider… I mean, Estel… I mean, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir?"

Elladan did not seem to consider my question unseemly – at least not from someone he shared his bed with. It was a family matter, after all.

"Why, the two are betrothed to each other," he answered with a shrug. "Long and hard has been their way toward happiness, and whether they ever shall be able to reach fulfillment I cannot say. For our father, though he had always loved Estel as if he were his own child, has announced that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a cause less than the second and final victory over the shadow. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. Yet we all fear that even if we might be victorious, to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending."

This revelation, though not fully surprising to me after all that I had learnt and observed on this very day, did not serve to soothe my boiling anger.

"So this is how your father intends to unite Middle-earth under his own rule?" I spat, fuming. "Through the loins of his children? Letting his daughter wed the self-proclaimed King of Arnor and demanding from him Gondor as a wedding gift? And allowing _you_ to bed Gondor's Heir, in hope that you can distract me with your skills enough to make me accept that usurper on Gondor's throne?"

Elladan did not even so much as flinch at these horrible accusations, only his face became very, very pale and his lips tightened to a thin line.

"I have heard that Men often feel the need to hurt those who love them most deeply," he finally said in a strangely flat voice, "yet I could not believe it – until now. Are your pain and anger truly so great that you need to hurt me such a cruel way? I gave you everything I could. I do not regret _that_. I only regret that it was not enough to lift the shadow from your heart."

With that, he turned around and left – not disappearing in that unnerving Elvish way but with the slow, faltering steps of the mortally wounded. A very… mortal departure it was, indeed.

I slumped into a big chair, still trembling with anger and bitter disappointment over all that happened in the Council. It took some time till the true meaning of Elladan's words filtered through the thick layers of fear, mistrust and pain that guarded my heart – and when it finally happened, it struck me like an iron fist.

I had never imagined that Elladan might fall for me this deeply. Ours was supposed to be an affair of convenience – limited by time, the customs of my own people and my own heart that was not mine to give… for it had been given a long time ago, once and forever.

But I did not want to cause the same anguish and pain I had suffered most of my life to the brave and gentle Elf who had so unexpectedly offered me comfort only a few weeks ago; who had healed me and lifted my spirits as far as could be done in such a short time.

Now, cursed by my stubborn pride, I had destroyed the best thing I had ever been given. Tonight I would not lie in the safety of Elladan's arms, would not feel the warmth of his slender body spooned up against my back. No soft, low voice would sing to me in my sleep, keeping away the nightmares of that shadow that had fallen upon my heart under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath.

At that thought, I hid my face in my hands, breaking down in tears for the first time since my mother's death.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

1) The Sindarin name of the month roughly identical to October. According to Appendix D of The Return of the King, the Sindarin names of the moons were only used by the Dúnedain – I assumed the custom was kept in Gondor as well as in Arnor.

2) November. See above.


	2. 2 Elrond's Council Part 2

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG, for this chapter – I think.

**Author's notes:**

This is an alternate version of the original second part of ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'', which I have taken offline, having the original 3-parter put together to one multi-chapter-story, so don't look out for it in vain. If you like this AU, though, it might be interesting for you to read the whole thing, if only to see the changes more clear. But it might be worth the sweat anyway. (Or so I hope – I'm rather fond of the original, actually.)

What has changed?

I added an opening scene – an Elladan POV, as I was asked by several people (and because I felt the need, myself);

I changed the infamous sword scene, bringing it closer to the movie;

I shortened this part of the Council scene, too, adding a very short movie scene (Gimli, trying to destroy the Ring);

Finally, I added a final scene, parallel to the Council events – the one between Elladan and Elrohir.

Many thanks to Deborah for providing the poetic translation of the Bible quote and to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.

**ELROND'S COUNCIL**

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I arose to open for my beloved   
My hands filled with myrrh  
My fingers dripping perfume on the door-handle.  
I opened for my beloved  
And my beloved was gone.  
My soul went out to seek him.  
I sought him and did not find him.  
I called him, and he did not answer me.

Song of Solomon 5:6 (Deborah's translation)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Part Two**

I know not how I got over the Bridge blindly. It must have been pure instinct.

For blinded I was by the unshed tears that burnt in my eyes like fire.

Like on that long-gone day of my childhood when I visited the smiths in their workshop and stared at the glowing iron in fearful amazement.

I nearly lost my eyesight on that day. Had one of the smiths not spotted me, I might be the only blind Elf in Imladris now.

Mayhap it would be better so; for were I blind, I would have never noticed him, never fallen for him – and he could not have broken my hart.

He called me a whore. He accused me of sharing my bed – of sharing _myself_ – with him only for Father's purposes and for Estel's sake.

I wish it were so. That would certainly be a lot less painful.

Valar, I never thought love could hurt this much.

I knew that losing Mother nearly made Father flee his body and seek relief in the Halls of Mandos – but they had been married and very much in love for two thousand years. I only met him mere weeks ago. How could I have fallen for him so deeply?

He called me a whore.

He thinks I would deceive him. He thinks Father would send his children to the beds of mortal Men, in order to gain power and influence over the remains of fading Westernesse.

What a horrible father must his be if he can assume such thing from mine? And that he would accuse me of doing thus at Father's orders? Does he truly think so lowly of me? Or was he just lashing out in his pain, in his wounded pride and I happened to be there – at the wrong time, in the wrong place?

I cannot say.

'Tis true, we never spoke of love. I offered him solace and sought the same thing for myself. And that was what I have found. Naught else. He loves me not, and I knew this and accepted this.

Why I had to fall in love with him, I cannot understand. And yet there is naught I can do against my own, foolish heart. I fell for him on our first night together and I cannot undo this. Nor do I wish to do so.

Love is beyond our reach to gain or to quench.

_For love is as strong as death and passion is as harsh as the grave_, or so the songs of mortal Men say.

I seem to take after my mortal ancestors even more than any one had thought – including myself.

And that is my curse.

Were I Elf enough, I could die of a broken heart and heal my _fëa_(1) in Mandos' Halls. Yet I cling to this life with a mortal stubbornness, and not even Death itself could make me forget him.

Nor would I want to. Despite how much he hurt me, I love him, and I always will. What we had was more than a simple, merry tryst in the hay. Our souls have mated as well, somewhere during our first night of beautiful, shared passion, and even if we shall never touch each other again – which is likely after what just happened – we are now bonded for eternity.

By the Lady's grace(2), he knows that not. Mortals bond themselves not in such way – 'tis very rare among them at best. So, at least he shall be able to forget and go on with his life.

If he survives what lies before him, that is.

For I can see the darkness deepening in his heart, and now that I cannot shield him any more, he is in greater peril than ever.

And when he falls into darkness, then so will I. I cannot walk this Earth without him. Not any more. I might endure losing him as long as I know that he is still around. But once he is gone, there will be naught that would tie me to Arda.

_Passion is as harsh as the grave_.

Valar, but it hurts.

How grateful I am that we shall be gone in mere hours. While we scout out the way to Lothlórien, I might recover a little. Time and distance will heal the wounds – as well as they can be healed.

My brother is coming.

Of course he feels that I am deeply troubled, no matter how hard I try to shield my feelings. We always can feel each other's emotional turmoil and never let the other suffer if we can be of help.

But I cannot face him right now. I cannot admit that he was right when he told me that I would get hurt, sooner or later, when I gave my heart to this Man. Of course he was right. But does it matter now? I have lost my heart and it shall be his, for ever.

''Go away, Elrohir,'' I murmur, without looking at him. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No one can.''

He says something I hear but do not understand; then he sits down beside me and lays an arm around my shoulders, holding me tightly.

And my tears finally begin to flow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After that short but very ugly fight with Elladan – if one could truly call it a fight, for Elladan did not even fight back, nor did he defend himself, simply endured being unjustly hurt and then left with quiet dignity, never uttering as much as a harsh word, only his clear eyes darkening with bewilderment and sorrow – Boromir had time enough to wallow in guilt and self-hatred, for Elrond had called a luncheon break of nearly an hour.

He wandered off into the vastness of Elrond's house and came upon a great hall. At the first sight, it reminded him of the secret archives of the Stewards in Minas Tirith, where no-one but the Lord Denethor was allowed access – not even his own sons, to Faramir's great displeasure. But this one was bigger – almost thrice the size –and older, much older. Scrolls and books, written in tongues probably not even Elrond himself could understand, filled the delicately carved shelves that reached from the marble-paved floor up to the shadowy heights of arched ceilings. Small writing desks and longer reading tables were scattered along the great hall.

Down a handful of stairs and along the pillared gallery that circled the chamber he went, his steps slow as his eyes travelled about the hall. Several graceful statues there stood, gazing sorrowfully at him from across the aisle, carved in stone in the likeness of the heroes of half-forgotten Elvish lays.

His eyes swept over the gallery again, eager to find out on their own what the Master of the House was reluctant to tell him, and saw that some of the statues held wide trays in their outstretched hands. And on the trays, there lay a scepter, a ring, a white gem formed like a star and – on the farthest one, gleaming against a white cloth – the broken remnants of a great sword. A sword out of legend.

Boromir felt a thrill of awe and dread at the sight of them. They were the symbols that had guided his life since early childhood, when he began to learn the lore of Númenor and its Kings – the ancient heirlooms of the North-kingdom and the embodiment of High Kingship among the children of Westernesse: the Ring of Barahir, the shards of Narsil, the Star of Elendil and the scepter of Annúminas.

Crossing the gallery, he climbed two shallow, stone steps to reach the platform where the farthest statue stood. Drawn to the broken blade almost against his will, Boromir reached out and took the hilt in his hand. It fitted beautifully, as if he was meant to wield it. He was raised to rule over the last city of Númenorean Kings, after all.

''The shards of Narsil,'' he murmured, believing it truly for the first time. ''The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand…''

He caressed the shard with his free hand with respect and admiration, ere he realized that he had just spoken the name of _him_ who was never named in Minas Tirith. He shuddered involuntarily; his hand slipped, and the broken blade cut deep into his flesh.

''Still sharp,'' he noticed absently, starring at his own blood, dripping slowly from the wounded finger upon the marble pavement. The bright red blood of Númenor wasting away, slowly but inevitably.

He shuddered again, his face hardening back to its usual tense alertness.

''But no more than a broken hilt it is.''

As he stood with Narsil's hiltshards in his hand, something touched him: a sense of being watched, that sent a cold shiver down his spine. He slowly, carefully turned, to find a Man seated only a few paces away, on a stone bench, a book open on his knee. It was Aragorn; his eyes were focused on Boromir, vivid and intense, burning him with their gaze.

''Not yet,'' he agreed in a low voice. ''Too long it has rested. Fifteen Chieftains there were, until I was born, less than a year later than your own father. And I have had a hard life and a long. The leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys.''

Boromir only half-listened to him. The bleeding stopped; yet the other cut, the one in his very heart, was deeper. Now that he had given proof – for the Star of Elendil, the scepter of Annúminas and the Ring of Barahir were well-known in Gondor, and he would have recognized them from the pictures he had been shown in his childhood even in his dreams – he had to come to terms with the truth. And it was not easy.

It meant that the time of the Ruling Stewards had come to an end. The Heir of Denethor would not take over the White City from his father as his sires did before him, back to Mardil Voronwë. For ere he could do that, Isildur's Heir would come and take it from him.

Take everything from him.

''I have to give these things some thought,'' he said abruptly and – not waiting for an answer – left.

The sword fell when he tried to replace it on the statue. Aragorn stood with one smooth movement, picked it up and returned it to its place, his face grim and his eyes unreadable.

* * * * * * * * * *

But none of them could give much thought to all these recent events, for the bell called them back to the Council again. All were gathered there already when Boromir arrived and took his seat next to Halbarad, and the older of the Halflings was asked to finally tell the story of the finding of the Ring.

And tell he did, at full length, recounting his adventure with one foul creature called Gollum, and from the surprised, even somewhat angry looks the Dwarves cast him Boromir guessed that he must have told _them_ a different story earlier.

On and on he went, and Boromir grew increasingly bored, for the scratchy voice of the little goblin cut into his already tortured mind, not letting him at think of anything else.

_Like mending fences with Elladan?_ the cruel little voice from inside inquired.

Finally Elrond took pity on him and raised his hand.

''Well told, my friend,'' he said to the Halfling, ''but that is enough at this time.'' With that Boromir whole-heartedly agreed. Another five minutes and he would have strangled the little thing. ''For the moment it suffices to know that the Ring passed to Frodo, your heir. Let him now speak.''

The little fellow with that innocent, Elvish face and deep blue eyes stood less willingly than his kinsman, yet he did it nonetheless, and told all of his dealings with the Ring from the day it passed into his keeping.

Boromir listened to him with rapt interest, and could not help feeling sorry for this troubled little creature who so clearly did not want to do anything with Rings of Power and wars and weapons. And yet on he went, leaving behind anything that was dear to his little heart, hunted by the same nameless horror that touched him under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, and reached his goal against all odds. How could a born warrior like Boromir not admire the little one? Such selfless bravery deserved respect, at the least.

After the young hobbit finished his tale, the silver-haired Galdor of the Havens, who sat nearby, wrapped in a grey cloak against the cooling weather, turned to Elrond in doubt.

''The Wise may have good reason to believe that the Halfling's trove is indeed the Great Ring of long debate, unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proof?''

A few of the others nodded in agreement. Boromir did so, himself, though he had seen more than enough proof of things he did not want to learn, for not only one day but for a whole lifetime.

_Do not think about _that_ now_, he warned himself, forcing his mind to listen to the council. He could not let himself miss aught. The fate of Minas Tirith might be at stake with every morsel of tidings these people offered so very reluctantly. _His_ city, no matter who might be called King over her one day. No birthright would make Isildur's Heir bound to her every stone the way the Heir of the Stewards was bound to her – through countless centuries of love and faithful service his father's fathers had left him as a legacy.

''And what of Saruman?'', the grey-cloaked Elf from the Havens added. ''He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?''

_What, indeed?_, Boromir thought grimly. _Is there more behind the wizard's treachery towards Rohan than the hunger for even more power? If Curunír knows about the Ring, then mayhap his moves in the Mark are but preparations for a much bigger war. And if Théodred's guess is right and Isengard is now in league with the Dark Tower, then we are truly lost. Tarrying here instead of preparing for war is folly. One that we might regret deeply, ere the day of battles shall dawn._

Yet he said naught, waiting for these oh-so-wise people to finally tell what they truly knew. This was something he needed to learn.

''Some, Galdor,'' said Mithrandir, ''would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo proof enough that the Halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a Ring. What then…?''

So Mithrandir continued the tale, telling them how he tried to find Gollum, for he desired to know how the Ring came to such a pitiful creature, and how long he had possessed it; yet the shrewd little thing escaped him and was not found. After that he let the matter rest, watching and waiting only.

_As you and your precious Elves have done all the times while Gondor fought and bled_, Boromir commented in his heart.

''That was seventeen years ago,'' Mithrandir continued. ''Soon I became aware that spies of many sorts, even beasts and birds, were gathered round the Shire, and my fear grew. I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled: and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur.''

All eyes turned to the Ranger with unveiled curiosity. Aragorn shifted on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with all that attention paid to his person, and said:

''And I counseled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur's Heir labor to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.''

_How noble of you_, Boromir thought grimly, _and just _what_ were you hoping to find? Which proof did you truly desire, battered offspring of fallen Kings: that the Ring would be the One or that it would not: What hope of yours still lies with it?_'

His mind got sidetracked again, not caring much for the long story of how Mithrandir and the Ranger hunted the creature. Yet his ears perked up again when the wizard quoted Curunír's words.

''The Nine, the Seven, and the Three,'' he said, ''had each a proper gem. Not so the One. It was round and unadorned, as if it were one of the lesser rings; but its Maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read.''

Mithrandir paused and shook his head slowly.

''What those marks were he had not said. Who now would know? The Maker. And Saruman? But great though his lore may be, it must have a source. What hand save Sauron's ever held this thing, ere it was lost? The hand of Isildur alone.''

Here the wizard paused again, and Boromir rolled his eyes. Could the old trickster not come to the point and tell what he was about to tell, without all those little games? People were already listening to him anyway…

''With that thought, I forsook the chase and passed swiftly to Gondor,'' Mithrandir finally continued. ''In former days the members of my order had been well received there, but Saruman most of all. Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords of the City. Less welcome did the Lord Denethor show me then than of old, and grudgingly he permitted me to search among his hoarded scrolls and books. 

'If indeed, you look only, as you say, for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of the City, read on!' he said. 'For to me what was is less dark than what is to come, and that is my care. But unless you have more skill than even Curunír, who has studied here long, you will find naught that is not well known to me, who am master of the lore of this city.' ''

Boromir had to force himself not to laugh. How very like his father, the strong-willed, ill-tempered, heavily burdened with worries over his city Lord of Minas Tirith this sounded!. A small wonder itself, indeed it had been, that he had allowed Mithrandir entrance to his secret archives at all. Usually he would let no-one even near those rooms, not even his own sons, no matter how much Faramir tried.

''So said Denethor,'' the wizard continued. ''And yet there lie in his hoards many records that few now can read; even of the lore-masters, for their scripts and tongues have become dark to later Men.'' Now he turned directly to Boromir, for the first time since the Council had set on anew. ''And Boromir, there lies in Minas Tirith, still, unread, I guess, by any save Saruman and myself since the Kings failed, a scroll that Isildur made himself. For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor, as some have told the tale.''

''Some in the North, maybe,'' Boromir replied, thoroughly fed up now with the wizard's lecturing tone. ''All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew, Melendil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree, in memory of his brother.''

_How much more fleeting your memory is, brother mine! Only a touch of light breeze on my brow, a fleeting taste of strong wine, sweet honey and bitter tears on my lips… once and forever, never to be tasted again. A parting gift, so cool and vanishing as a handful of snow in hot palms – it fades away swiftly, yet long does it burn afterwards. And burn I do with never-ending fire, whomever I might try to quench my thirst with…_

He lost his track on Mithrandir's tale, not caring how the wizard found the scroll of Isildur that described the secret marks on the One Ring – and how they could be made visible again. Only when he heard the name of his father mentioned once more did he turn his focus outwards again.

''At once I took my leave of Denethor,'' Mithrandir was saying, ''but even as I went northwards, messages came to me out of Lórien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dear not guess.''

''There is little need to tell of them,'' said Aragorn, and Boromir could only shake his head in disgust over this false modesty. ''If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he shall have.''

_And just who are _you_ to lecture of_ that_?_ Boromir clenched his teeth in barely repressed fury. _Who of all this Council is the one who faces the Black Gate every single day? Who can see the fire of Mount Down while merely standing on his watchpost? Who had to fight the Orc-hosts of Minas Morgul and endure the Nameless Fear under that broken bridge in Osgiliath, buried under the dead bodies of good men whom he had grown up with?_

He stopped listening to the tale, told with far too many words by Strider – by _Aragorn_, he reminded himself, say _Aragorn_, at least you do not have to say _majesty_ yet –, how Gollum was finally found and dragged to the Elves in Mirkwood who had agreed to keep him, until Mithrandir came and endured a long speech with him, learning, that Gollum's ring, indeed, came out of the Great River, nigh to the Gladden Fields where Isildur was slain. And that Gollum had possessed it long, many lives of his small kind, for the power of the Ring had lengthened his years far beyond their span.

A power that only Great Rings wield.

''And if that is not proof enough, Galdor,'' the wizard turned back to the Elf, ''there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set it in the fire for awhile. That I have done and this I have read:

_Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_ash nazg thrakatulúk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears – all but Legolas, who only paled a little and glared at Mithrandir defiantly, as someone who is used to face great perils.

The words, though the evil tongue was not known to him, jabbed through Boromir's heart like daggers of white-hot iron; yet they were as cold as ice. He doubled over in excruciating pain, his breath caught in his aching chest, the unbearable weight of darkness slamming down onto his heart. It was as if the long, wordless wails of the Nameless Fear suddenly had taken on shape. As if a curse, floating above him for a long time, finally had been spoken. As if he had been marked by the shadow, forever.

Through pain-veiled eyes he could see the Lord of Imladris jerk to high alert in his seat. For the first time, he truly could believe that once Elrond had been a great warrior who faced the Enemy itself on the slopes of Mount Doom and stayed back when all fled, nearly alone, to protect the slain body of his fallen King. That fair, ageless face was now pale with barely restrained wrath, the storm-grey eyes gleamed with cold fire, and even in his pain-hazed state Boromir was glad that Elrond's fury was not aimed at him.

_Not yet, at least_, that merciless voice in his heart commented. _Wait till he learns how you have treated his firstborn_…

''Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey,'' said Elrond in a dangerously low, silky voice, as the shadow passed and the members of the Council breathed once more.

''And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again,'' answered Mithrandir in his usual, unshakable manner. ''Nonetheless, I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond. For if that tongue is not soon to be heard in every corner of the West, then this thing is, indeed, what the Wise declared: the treasure of the Enemy, fraught with all his malice; and in it lies a great part of his strength of old.''

Boromir looked at the fine, Elvish face of the young hobbit, Frodo, and once more, he felt great pity for the little creature, burdened with such an evil legacy. Small wonder he tried to pass it over to Strider – _Aragorn_, get used to it! –, who rather skillfully avoided taking it upon himself. What kind of King could such a man become? One who would not take the burden from the weak and weary? What could the White City hope from such a ruler?

_Were it up to me, I would lessen your burden, little one_, Boromir thought, watching that pain-ridden, small face. He never saw Elven children – no-one in Middle-earth had seen any for at least three thousand years –, but he guessed this would be what they would look like. _'Tis not right that you have to carry it. You ought to be merry and free of all concerns about evil. 'Tis Men who are made for great burdens, not innocent little Halflings. How I wish that I could help you!_

And that crack-brained wizard was still not done with his tale!

''Know also, my friends, that I learned more yet from Gollum,'' he said. ''He was loath to speak and his tale was unclear, but it is beyond doubt that he went to Mordor, and there all he knows was forced from him. Thus the Enemy knows that the One is found; that it was long in the Shire; and since his servants pursued it almost to our door, he soon will know, already he may know, even as I speak, that we have it here.''

All sat silent for a while, until at length Boromir spoke, unable to hold back any more, for his patience was running out, and the only thing he wanted was to be done with all this wailing and pondering over things he could do naught about. Now that all parts of the Riddle of Doom were finally revealed (and their meaning was aught but pleasant for him *or* for Minas Tirith), he only wished to return home and defend his city with every means he could laid hand upon.

''He is a small thing, you say, this Gollum?'' he asked. ''Small, but great in mischief, it seems. What became of him? To what doom did you put him?''

''He is in prison but no worse,'' said Aragorn. ''He had suffered much. There is no doubt that he was tormented, and the fear of Sauron lies black on his heart.''''

Boromir winced involuntarily. Why in Middle-earth would these Northern people need to call the Enemy by his name every time they mentioned him? Were they not taught that names, even the lesser ones that were only taken for a certain time to wear, carried great powers and might invoke great evil if spoken lightly? Was even the so-called Heir of Isildur taught nothing? Not even in Elrond's house – who was said to be the greatest lore-master of this age? Or was he so haughty already that he dared to challenge the Dark Lord in his folly? Then the fate of Minas Tirith was sealed, for sure.

''Still I for one am glad that Gollum is safely kept by the watchful Elves of Mirkwood,'' the Ranger added. ''His malice is great and gives him a strength hardly to be believed in one so lean and withered. He could work much mischief still, if he were free. And I do not doubt that he was allowed to leave Mordor on some evil errand.''

_Must they really speak this much, all of them?_ Boromir thought, somewhat irritated, for the custom of his King-to-be to make many more words than necessary, made him edgy. _Valar, should he ever come to Minas Tirith, he and Father would be at each other's throats all the time_.

For the Lord Denethor was known to have his ways with words as well (just as did his younger son, but not his firstborn), wielding them with merciless strength like sharp weapons, and he had little patience for those who wasted his time, even if they were his own sons. Boromir had no doubt that his father would not be frightened by Aragorn's birth or claim once his cold rage awakened.

_Gondor shall be divided and fall_, he realized with numbing fear, _if no-one comes between the two of them. Tis something I cannot let happen – yet how shall I keep them from tearing at each other? And whom I shall side with? The Lord Denethor is not only my father, he is the Steward of Gondor and has served his land faithfully all his life. Yet I cannot deny that the claim of Aragorn is just, at least by the laws of both Kingdoms… What can I do to keep them fighting each other and thus bring our land to fall?_

A sharp Elvish cry of great distress jerked him out of his troubled thoughts.

''Alas!'' Legolas cried, and his fair face darkened with concern. ''The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem for this Council. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped.''

''Escaped?'' cried Aragorn. ''That is ill news indeed, after all our trouble to lay hand upon him. We shall rue it bitterly. How come the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?''

_Fool_, Boromir thought with despair, _you were brought up by Elves, how can you openly insult one of them, a Wood-Elf and a Prince above all? Or do you think that Legolas shall endure it for the sake of your old friendship? I very much doubt it._

And Legolas turned very pale indeed, green eyes gleaming cold like a naked sword in starlight, and every one around became troubled, for he seemed dangerously near to losing control. Rarely did it happen with Elves that they would give in to their cold wrath, but when it happened, it could have dire consequences. Even more so with Wood-Elves, who always had had more of the Wild in their hearts and possessed a certain amount of wickedness – and a great deal of wounded pride, having been often looked down upon by the Noldor and others who had seen the Blessed Realm. Boromir felt awfully certain that the Prince of Mirkwood could tear the Ranger apart with his bare hands if provoked beyond his endurance. He silently promised himself not to make Legolas angry at him. Ever.

At that moment Elrond silently reached out and laid a calming hand upon the shoulder of his lover. Legolas took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down – he was a child no more, not even in Elven terms, and it would have been beneath his dignity to lose his calm.

''T'was not through look of watchfulness,'' he told in an even voice, though his eyes were still burning in cold fury, ''But mayhap through over-kindliness. And we fear that the prisoner had aid from others, and that more is known of our doings than we could wish.''

He gave a short report about Gollum's time in Mirkwood and how the vile little beast was freed by the Orcs – which cost him the deaths of three of his close friends: trusted archers who had fought in many battles against the fell creatures haunting the Forest during hundreds of years.

''We have failed to recapture Gollum,'' he admitted reluctantly. ''We came on his trail among those of many Orcs, and it plunged deep into the Forest, going south. But ere long it escaped our skill, and we dared not continue the hunt; for we were drawing nigh to Dol Guldur, and that is still a very evil place; we do not go that way.''

Boromir could only guess how hard it for the proud Elven Prince might be to admit that they were outnumbered and the horrors of the Necromancer's Tower simply too great to face, even in his obvious vengeful grief for his slain friends. Yet Legolas did not spare his own pride in order to reveal the truth, and that was more than what could be told of most Men.

Mithrandir, on the other hand, did not seem to be very impressed with the honesty of the Elf. He simply shrugged and accepted the failure as it happened.

''Well, well, he is gone. We have no time to seek for him again. He must do what he will. But he may play a part yet that neither he nor Sauron have foreseen.''

And with that customary vague comment he turned back to Galdor again.

''And now I shall answer to your other questions. What about Saruman? What are his counsels to us in this need? This tale I must tell in full, for only Elrond has heard it yet, and that in brief, but it will bear on all that we must resolve. It is the last chapter in the Tale of the Ring, so far as it has gone yet.''

And so he told in great length how he was lured into a death trap by the very head of his own order, and how he escaped with the help of Radagast the Brown and Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, and was brought by the Eagle to Edoras, where the Lord of Rohan sits in his halls.

''And I was glad,'' he added, ''for in the Riddermark of Rohan the Rohirrim, the Horse-lords dwell, and there are no horses like those that are bred in the great vale between the Misty Mountains and the White. And, knowing of the treachery of Saruman now, I was worried about the Ring-bearer and his burden, and needed to get to Imladris, fast.''

''Are the Men of Rohan still to be trusted, you think?'' Elrond asked.

Boromir raised his head in sudden anger, but ere he could rush to the aid of his faithful allies, Mithrandir answered the Elf-Lord.

''The same question I asked the Eagle, for the treason of Saruman had shaken my faith. He said the Rohirrim paid a tribute of horses, and sent many yearly to Mordor, or so it is told. And in Rohan I found evil already at work: the lies of Saruman; and the King of the land would not listen to my warnings. He bade me to take a horse and be gone; and I chose one to my liking, but little to his. I took the best horse in his land, and I have never seen the like of him.''

''Then he must be a noble beast, indeed,'' said Aragorn; ''and it grieves me more than many tidings that might seem worse to learn that Sauron levies such tribute. It was not so when last I was in that land.''

''Nor it is now, I shall swear,'' said Boromir, his big fists clenching involuntarily with anger, for it greatly troubled him that the honor of the Rohirrim, that of the Prince Théodred the Brave above all, was being stained here, by the very people who weren't able to see through the lies of that cursed wizard. ''Tis a lie that comes from the Enemy. I know the Men of Rohan, true and valiant; our allies, dwelling still in the lands that we gave them long ago. With no help from others have they fought the Orc-hordes of Isengard and are still fighting to keep their land free.''

''The shadow of Mordor lies on distant lands,'' answered Aragorn. ''Saruman has fallen under it. Rohan is beset. Who knows what you shall find there, if ever you return?''

''Not this at least,'' Boromir countered hotly, ''that they will buy their lives with horses. They love their horses next to their kin.''

That silenced the Ranger for awhile, so that Mithrandir could finally come to an end of his story, telling how he followed the trail of Aragorn's company, without having been able to find them in the wilderness. So he changed paths and came straight to Imladris where he met them again, to his great relief.

''Well, the tale is now told, from first to last,'' he finished. ''Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do?''

There was silence. At last Elrond spoke again.

''This is grievous news concerning Saruman,'' he said; ''for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before.''

_Tis all you have to say, Lord of Imladris?_ Boromir asked silently. _Unfortunate for the brave Riders of Rohan to live in the neighborhood of a treacherous wizard? Ought you not to do something about Curunír, who was, after all, part of your precious White Council?_

''What power still remains lies with us, here in Imladris, or with Círdan at the Havens, or in Lórien,'' Galdor said. ''But have they the strength, have _we_ here the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?''

_Strength_, Boromir snorted, _what strength? What have the Elves done ever since the beginnings of this very age? Mayhap the Wood-Elves fought the Orcs, for they had no other choice, but all those noble others have simply run to the Havens, every time when the sky darkened with peril. Strength, indeed_…

''I have not the strength,'' Elrond admitted ruefully; ''nor have they.''

All eyes turned to the Lord of Imladris, and the members of the Council became very silent. Boromir, too, glared expectantly at his host – what in Middle-earth was he about to suggest, after he had already stated that they had no way out of this disaster? Would he choose to wield the Ring after all, no matter how much he disagreed with Isildur's choice?

''The westward way seems easiest,'' Elrond continued. ''Therefore it must be shunned. It shall be watched. Too often the Elves have fled that way.''

_Too often, indeed. Leaving the younger, weaker people to their fate, good or evil alike. Little did the Elves ever care for others than themselves. Mayhap now the mortal blood in Elrond's veins would prove strong enough to overcome his Elvish haughtiness and make the right choice_.

The Lord of Imladris sighed, as if he had read Boromir's thoughts. A hard choice it was, indeed. And he was doomed to make it, for he alone – aside of Gandalf mayhap – had all the right strings in his hand. And being the host of this Council, it was as much his right as it was his duty.

''You have only one choice. The ring must be destroyed,'' Elrond said.

It seemed to Boromir as if he heard a faint, displeased murmur in the darkest corner of his heart. As if the Ring itself would have protested against this advice.

Ere someone could have offered other advice, one of the Dwarves leapt to his feet – it was the youngest one with that fiery beard whom Boromir had seen from his balcony at their arrival.

''What are we waiting for?'' he cried, and he rushed upon the Ring with his axe swinging.

Boromir held his breath anxiously. For a moment it seemed an unforgivable sin for his heart to destroy a thing of such beauty and power, and he almost rose from his seat to catch the wiry arm of the Dwarf. But in the next instant, the axe burst asunder, Gimli was hurled back onto the flagstones, and the Ring still lay, untouched, in all its beauty. Boromir breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

''The ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin, by any craft that we here possess. Now at this last we must take a hard road, a road unforeseen'', Elrond announced solemnly.

Then, in a clear, low voice, stressing every single word meaningfully, he added:

''The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.'' In the sudden, stunned silence, Boromir almost laughed. ''One of you must do this.''

''There lies our hope, if hope it be. To walk into peril – to Mordor. We must send the Ring to the Fire.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Elrohir could feel that something was wrong. His brother, who had been floating on a cloud of happiness and utter satisfaction for days – ever since he spontaneously decided to take the Heir of Gondor in his bed – suddenly had raised his inner shields, blocking him completely.

Something most certainly was wrong. Elladan had never shut him out before. Not until the night when he had given himself to that mortal. That was the very moment when they started to drift apart. After two and a half thousand years, they became slightly estranged.

Elrohir knew he was not without guilt in this himself. He could not accept Elladan's choice, though he was careful enough not to show his disapproval before the eyes of the Man. He had been certain that Elladan would be hurt. And he had been right, it seemed.

Coming to a sudden decision, Elrohir left his chambers through the adjoining balcony that connected them with those of his brother's.

Elladan sat on the paved floor, his long legs pulled up to his chest and he hugged them tightly, his brow laid on his knees to hide his face.

He was as still as a statue. He did not even seem to breathe.

But he felt Elrohir's approach, of course. Even now, after he had shut him out from his troubled feelings. They always felt each other, even through their inner shields. They were much too close not to.

Elladan, however, was not in the mood to share his feelings.

''Go away, Elrohir,'' he murmured, without looking at his brother. ''Leave me alone. You cannot help me. No one can.''

Elrohir sighed, sat down beside his twin and laid an arm around his shoulders, holding him tightly.

''Try me,'' he said quietly.

But Elladan was beyond listening already.

He was beyond speaking, too.

Only the deep, wracking, soundless sobs that shook his whole body proved that he was still alive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, this chapter became a rather lengthy one, after all. I was forced to keep more of the Council speech intact than originally planned, because otherwise the whole part would have lost its coherence. But the next one shall be shorter, I promise.

End notes:

1) The Elven equivalent of a soul. The physical part of an Elf's being (= his body) is called the hröa.

2) Meaning Elbereth (or Varda), Queen of the Valier and patron of the Elves, to whom they usually pray.


	3. 3 Elrond's Council Part 3

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG–13, for implied m/m interaction.

**Author's notes:**

This is an alternate version of the original third part of ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'', concentrating more on the Boromir/Elladan relationship and partially from Boromir's POV. The main structure has been a little changed, too, but so far this is the part that is closest to the original. From the next chapter on, the true differences will come.

**ELROND'S COUNCIL**

''Upon my bed by night  
I sought him, whom my soul loves;  
I sought him but found him not;  
I called him but he gave no answer. 

I will rise now and go about the city,  
In the streets and in the squares.  
I will seek him whom my soul loves.'' 

Song of Solomon, 3:1

**Part Three**

''The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom," Elrond announced solemnly. ''Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came." He looked up and around at each face in the circle, one after another. "One of you must do this."

Silence fell again. Boromir frowned, fingering the blackened silver clasp upon his throat as if for aid. For even in the fair, sunlit house of Elrond, he felt a dead darkness upon his heart – the same shadow that had first darkened it at Osgiliath and settled upon him forever, it seemed, when the wizard foolishly uttered those cursed words of binding power in the Black Speech.

One Ring to rule them all,  
One Ring to find them,  
One Ring to bring them all  
and in the Darkness bind them.

These dark words of doom, it seemed, had been floating over him ever since Osgiliath. And now that they were spoken, he could see no way to escape his fate. What a pitiful way to fulfill one's destiny. To have been found by the Darkness, even before he would have learnt about the Ring. To be brought here, to the Ring itself. To fall before temptation.

At length he spoke, and his words came hissing through clenched teeth.

''One does not simply walk into Mordor. Its black gates are guarded by more than Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash and dust. The very air you breathe is poisonous fume. It is folly. Not with ten thousand men could you do this.''

He glanced at Aragorn, and for the first time ever since this very Council had begun, he saw a flicker of understanding in those grey eyes, the ones of his so much alike. And he, too, understand at once that the words of his King-to-be about facing the perils of Mordor were no idle boasting, after all. The Ranger truly had walked the Black Fields.

Yet it was Legolas who answered him, fair Prince of Mirkwood, still irritated from his recent clash with Aragorn.

''Have you heard naught the Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!''

''And I suppose you think you're the one to do it?" Gimli the Dwarf asked in an acid tone.

''And what if we fail?'' Boromir snapped. ''What happens when Sauron takes back what is his? Curunír is a traitor – this I have known since I crossed the borders of Rohan – but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he must fear, I deem.''

Here, he had said it. Not everything that had been on his mind, but most of it.

All that needed to be said.

All that _could_ be said.

''I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" Gimli growled. ''Never trust an Elf!''

Boromir glared at him in mild shock, for this was a very foolish thing to say, even for a Dwarf whose people had long-held grudges against the Fair Folk. But soon he had forgotten all about the Dwarf, for it seemed to him as if he heard the Ring chant wordlessly in the darkening depths of his own heart, telling its name, and its terrible purpose, in the language of its Master.

The Council dissolved into arguing, and as Elves, Dwarves and Men were shouting at each other in ever-deepening anger and distrust, it seemed as if flames spread across the Ring, til it seemed like a wheel of dark fire. And Boromir's own heart filled with anger as well, and finally it poured out of its vessel as he raised his great voice, yelling as he would yell at unruly troops on a battlefield.

''Enough!''

The others looked at him in awe, faces still flushed with the heat of their anger, fists still clenched tightly.

''The men of Gondor are valiant, and they shall never submit," he added more softly, his heart warming with the thought of the many good and brave men that had gone into battle with him, ever since he was old enough to wield a sword, but also saddening with the memory of how few of them were still alive; ''but they may be beaten down. Valor needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!''

For one fleeting moment he almost believed that they would listen to him… the Dark Lord was their enemy as much as he was Gondor's. But after a look at Elrond's distant face his hopes faded into nothingness.

For Elrond only shook his head, and when he looked at the driven Man, there was great sadness in his eyes. For he knew well that they could not do as Boromir suggested and felt pity for him who only wanted to protect his land… even with means that surely would destroy it.

''Boromir," he said, and now his voice was almost gentle, "its strength is too great to wield it at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own.''

''Why cannot one of you take it, then?'' Boromir asked stubbornly. ''Are you not the great war heroes of the Last Alliance, you and Glorfindel? And what of Mithrandir? Is he not a wizard? Does he not know the old lore better than any among Men? Surely he could tame the power of the Ring when the need arises.''

''For us," Elrond responded gravely, ''the Ring holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear.''

To _that_ Boromir could say nothing. The concept was far beyond his experience.

''And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed," added Elrond quietly; ''as long as it is in the world it will be danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I shall _not_ take the Ring to wield it.''

''Nor I," said Mithrandir.

Boromir looked at them doubtfully. Especially at the wizard, whom he trusted even less than the Elves. Was Mithrandir not a member of the same order whose very head was drowning the green fields of Rohan in blood at this very moment? Had he not been held prisoner in Isengard for a length of time? Who knew what orders he had been given before he fled – if he, indeed, had been rescued by the Great Eagle, as told, and not simply released by Curunír with a dark and evil errand. He had certainly spoken the Binding Curse in the Black Speech easily enough. Like someone who was used to that evil tongue.

Yet as a soldier Boromir knew when to accept defeat. He bowed his head towards Elrond.

''So be it," he said. ''Then in Gondor we must trust to such weapons as we have. And at the least, while the Wise ones guard this Ring, we shall fight on. Mayhap the Sword-that-was-Broken may still stem the tide," he added with bitter irony and a sideways glance at Aragorn, ''if the hand that wields it has inherited not a heirloom only, but the sinews of the Kings of Men.''

''Who could tell?" said Aragorn. ''But we shall put it to the test one day.''

''May the day not be too long delayed," said Boromir; once again, he felt the weariness spread through all his limbs. ''For though I do not ask for aid, we need it. It would comfort us to know that others fought also with all the means that they have.''

''Then be comforted," Elrond said. ''For there are other powers and realms that you know not, and they are hidden from you. Anduin the Great flows past many shores, ere it comes to Argonath and the Gates of Gondor.''

Boromir rolled his eyes at this very Elvish comment that sounded so pretty yet said naught, as usual- but he spoke no more. He cared no more. Now that these fools had, indeed, decided to destroy the One Ring – a plan whose success he greatly doubted – his only wish was to return home. Should the Heir of Isildur accompany him, it might give the people of Gondor new hope, as long as the fight went on. What might come after that, with his father and the Ranger King under the same roof, he dared not even to think about.

''But what then would happen, if the Ruling Ring were destroyed, as you counsel?'' asked Glóin.

''We know not for certain," answered Elrond sadly. ''Some hope that the Three Rings, which Sauron has never touched, would become free, and their rulers might heal the hurts of the world that he has wrought. But maybe when the One has gone, the Three will fail, and many fair things shall fade and be forgotten. That is _my_ belief.''

''Yet all the Elves are willing to endure this chance," said Glorfindel, ''if by it the power of Sauron may be broken and the fear of his dominion be taken away for ever.''

_Lightly do you speak of endurance, my Lord Elf_, Boromir thought grimly, _yet what fate do you expect Gondor to endure? For you, the world may become a much darker place – dark enough, indeed, to leave it behind and sail to the Blessed Realm. But we – we shall be dead by then. My beautiful city in ruins, her people slain, the memory of her wise and valiant Kings forgotten. The fields of Rohan stained with the blood of its brave warriors and their horses. You shall be gone and live on for ever. But we… _we_ shall be dead_.

''Thus we return once more to the destroying of the Ring," Erestor said, ''and yet we come no nearer. What strength have we for the finding of the Fire in which it was made? That is the path of despair. Or folly I would say, if the long wisdom of Elrond did not forbid me.''

For the first time during this Council, Boromir found himself in complete agreement with an Elf. Not so Mithrandir, though, it seemed.

''Despair or folly?" he said, his deep eyes gleaming. ''It is not despair; for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not.''

_Speak for yourself, wizard_.

''Well, let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy! For he is very wise, and weighs all things to a nicety in the scales of his malice. But the only measure that he knows is desire, desire for power; and so he judges all hearts. Into his heart the thought shall not enter that any shall refuse it, that having the Ring we may seek to destroy it.''

/Why, indeed, should he think such a thing? Tis madness./

''If we seek this, we shall put him out of reckoning," Mithrandir finished, with a self-content glare around.

''At least for a while," Elrond added soberly. ''The road must be trod, but it shall be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.''

''And who, in your wisdom, would be seen fit for this burden?" Boromir asked.

No-one answered the question. The bell, signaling the ninth hour of the day, rang. Still no-one spoke. Boromir glanced at all the faces, but they were not turned to him. All the council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. Only the young hobbit, Frodo returned his glare, deep blue eyes wide with fear, a great dread on that small, innocent Elvish face as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain in peace, too, here where no evil could touch him – for a while, at least.

How well Boromir himself knew _this_ feeling! Having lived under the shadow so long, only to have the curse spoken over him at last, here, in Imladris, where he would expect to have his fate sealed the least. To fall into darkness ere it had even tempted his heart. For there were other hindrances on his path to bring him to fall, and his steps were faltering already, with or without the binding power of the Ring.

At last the small, trembling voice of the young hobbit spoke.

''I will take the Ring," Frodo said, and Boromir's heart went out for him, seeing the infinite sadness on that child-like little face, ''though I do not know the way.''

Elrond raised his eyes and looked at the hobbit, and his keen glance was piercing sharp like a dagger.

''If I understand aright all that I have heard," he said, ''I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will.''

Boromir felt like screaming. Were they all out of their minds? These, who called themselves the Wise, had they no pity for this fragile little creature? How could they seriously consider sending him out into the Black Lands, with the most dangerous weapon ever forged in Middle-earth, only to be slain? What hope could this innocent little fellow have where armies of Elves and Men had failed?

''But it is a heavy burden," Elrond added, stating the obvious like Elves always loved to do. ''So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I shall say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty Elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together, your seat should be among them.''

_And we all know too well how _they_ all ended_, Boromir, well-versed in the legends of the Elder Days, as was fitting for a born ruler, added grimly. For indeed, all the Elf-friends of old had to endure great perils, torture and pain, and most of them had died young and painfully – and even in madness and dishonor. One could not say that being an Elf-friend was desirable for mortals, in any way.

''But you would not send him off alone surely, Master?'' another hobbit – Frodo's man-servant, as it seemed – jumped up from the corner where he had been quietly sitting on the floor.

''No indeed!'' said Elrond, turning towards him with a smile. ''You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With that, the long and fruitless Council came to an end, with naught being decided beyond choosing two unfortunate hobbits for an impossible task. Elrond, for his part, offered to make preparations for them. Some of his scouts had been sent out already, and even more were to go in the next morrow. Elrond was sending Elves to get in touch with the Rangers of the North, and maybe with the people of Legolas' father, King Thranduil, in Mirkwood.

The sons of Elrond, too, left the dale on the same morrow, with many other scouts to scour the lands all round for many long leagues before any move should be made. Strider – _Aragorn_ – went with them too, and Elladan left without saying farewell to his estranged lover. Not that Boromir would have been surprised by _that_. He knew he deserved it – and more, for he had treated Elladan badly and unjustly.

But Elrohir came to see him the eve before, and for once there was a hardness on his fair face that Boromir only had seen on the face of his twin before. For the first time, the blood of his mortal fathers burnt through those aloof Elven manners of his.

''I require a word with you, son of Denethor, ere we leave," he said in that cold voice Boromir had come to know as a sign of silent fury in Elves. And indeed, he looked as if he wanted to tear the Man to pieces with his bare hands.

''What do you want, Elrohir?'' Boromir asked wearily, though in truth he already had a good idea. ''To tell me what a fool I have been to throw away the greatest gift I have ever been given? I already know _that_.''

''I care not for _your_ loss or your regret," Elrohir replied coldly. ''I only care for my brother who has been hurt badly. What has he done to you that he would deserve being treated so cruelly? What deed of his roused your wrath against him so much that you needed to lash out and break his very heart?''

For awhile, Boromir could only remain silent in shame and despair.

''The fault is not his but mine," he finally answered. ''That Council… it angered me very much that you kept Aragorn's claim hidden from me. Never in my life was I considered untrustworthy – until I came to your father's house. I did not deserve to be kept in the dark.''

''That might be true," Elrohir nodded, the steely glaze of his eyes softening a little, ''but Estel's true heritage has been concealed all these many years. The Chieftains of the Dúnedain of the North have always lived in great peril, and their lives are for the most part short, for the Dark Lord has never ceased to seek out and hunt down Isildur's Heirs. We are accustomed to protect our own. And the Kings of Númenór and all their progeny *are* our kindred.''

At that, Boromir raised his head again, his own gaze, too, becoming somewhat harder now.

''You would not need to protect him from _me_, my Lord Elf," he said. ''I was brought up to become the Steward of the House of Anárion, and always have I known where my duties would lie: to defend and watch over the White City of the King until he returns – and step down, should he ever return, even if he were but the last of a ragged House long bereft of lordship and dignity.''

''That is how you see Estel, then?" Elrohir frowned. ''Yet I say to you, would-be Steward of Gondor, he is a lot more than that. Why else would our father give his blessing to Arwen's desire to wed him? Or do you truly believe that Elrond would abuse his own children's happiness as tools in order to gain power over the kingdoms of Men?''

''I know not what to believe any more," Boromir sighed in defeat. ''I only see how lowly all you Elves think Men are – lesser beings you consider us for not having the gift to live forever and see and learn things you already have seen and learnt. Even you, who call yourselves Half-Elven, treat the mortal blood in your veins as a fault.''

Elrohir remained silent for a moment; then he closed his eyes in pain and when he spoke again, his voice was soft and full of regret.

''Had you spoken of any of us, even myself, you might have been, to my shame, right. Yet Elladan is closer to your kin than he is to the Firstborn; he always has been. He chose to share his heart with you for his roots in this earth are deep – and being with you has brought him great joy. Yet you wronged him badly, and because of that we might lose him. For he still is Elvish enough to fade away from grief.''

Boromir felt a pang in his heart at those words. The thought that a strong, brave Elf warrior like Elladan might die of broken heart was unsettling – moreso the bitter truth that he would be the cause of such a grievance himself.

_Have I not caused enough pain yet to all those who are near me?_, he thought in dismay. _Not only did I greatly upset my father, destroying all his hopes for our House, and almost destroy my brother with the forbidden lust of my own heart; shall I now destroy the only one who gifted his undeserved love upon me as well? What has Elladan done, indeed, that I have treated him so unjustly?_

''I know not how to make him well again," he admitted sadly.

''Nor do I," Elrohir responded, ''yet I do know that you are the only one who might succeed.''

''I very much doubt it. My hands are too rough for healing.''

''Yet you should try," the Elf said, ''for I would not lose the one closest to my heart over your harshness. We shall be gone for quite a long time… long enough for you to make up your mind.''

With that he turned and left the Man alone. And alone he was, indeed, for in the coming days, the Elves avoided him and Mithrandir kept company with the hobbits (not that Boromir desired to spend time with _him_), and his King-to-be, thankfully, was not around either.

Only the Lady Aquiel sought out his company time and again, which surprised him greatly, for he thought she would share Elrohir's opinion about him – which, to a certain extent, she did. But she visited him a few times nevertheless, and they would walk among the trees of the valley, and she would tell him about the long life of his lover, of Elladan's deeds in earlier times and about his struggle to find his own way through the tearing forces of his dual nature.

She knew a great deal about him, and much did she give Boromir to think about. Which was a good thing at the time, or else he might have been driven mad, all by himself for days, with only the nightmares to keep him company, unable to leave the dale ere the scouts returned.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, greeted by the long, soft, sorrowful, and at times even wordless songs of the Wood-Elves, and each evening followed cool and clear, ere night fell and the nightmares, filled with fire and darkness, returned to torment Boromir's heart.

But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees, turning the wailing songs of the Wood-Elves even more sad, so sad it could have broken a Man's heart, had it not been in shards already. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east, and Boromir felt the coming of a hard winter in his bones. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky, and put to flight all the lesser stars.

But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Boromir could see it from the terrace of the guest house, freezing in the cold night but glad to have escaped from his dreams for awhile: deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley.

The great, lidless Eye of Mordor, framed with fire. He knew it well. He had seen it every day of his life, standing on the wall of his city. Minas Tirith, the white Queen of the South – she would be consumed by that fire one day. Of that, he was awfully certain… unless some wonder happened, something not even the Wise could foresee. And the weight of darkness grew on his heart, nearly unbearable.

Almost two months had he already spent in Elrond's house – or, to be nearer to the truth, in the guest house of the Lord of Imladris, with only Legolas' escort as his unseen company, for the Wood-Elves would vanish for days, to be with the immortal trees of the dale, and when they returned, they would not seek out his company. Not even Legolas came to him any more – Boromir did not know whether the Prince of Mirkwood was in Imladris at all or had left with the scouts as well.

Very lonely he was, more so than ever in his life, and were it not for the unfrequent visits of the Lady Aquiel, he probably would not have been able to endure it. Yet Lalaith's clear voice and musical laughter eased a little the burden of his heart, and so he went on, waiting for news, waiting for the longed-for day of his return to Gondor.

_Hithui_(1) had gone by with the last shreds of autumn, and _girithron_(2) was passing, when the scouts started to return, and Boromir was called to Elrond's house every time to hear their tidings. For that, he was grateful, even though having to endure Elrond's piercing glare made those meetings hard to bear.

In no region had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Black Riders or other servants of the Enemy. Even from the Eagles of the Misty Mountains they had learned no fresh news. Nothing had been seen or heard of Gollum, either; but the wild wolves were still gathering, and were hunting again far up the Great River.

Of the Black Riders no other trace was to be seen than the dead bodies of their drowned horses: three in the flooded Ford and five more on the rocks of the rapids below it. Yet the presence of their Riders was nowhere to be felt. It seemed that they had vanished from the North.

''Eight out of the Nine are accounted for at least," said Mithrandir. ''It is rash to be too sure, yet I think that we may hope now that the Ringwraiths were scattered, and have been obliged to return as best they could to their Master in Mordor, empty and shapeless.''

_To return to the neighborhood of Gondor. Empty and shapeless, you say, Mithrandir? The darkness that dwell in their empty shadow needs no shape to freeze the hearts of Men to ice and fill their minds with madness. Far worse they are without a shape, indeed, for so the restrains of a form shall not keep their darkness at one place but sends it out all over our lands_…

''If that is so, it shall be some time before they can begin the hunt again," the wizard added, unaware of Boromir's dark thoughts. ''Of course, the Enemy has other servants, but they will have to journey all the way to the borders of Rivendell ere they can pick up our trail. And if we are careful that shall be hard to find. But we must delay no longer.''

And so Boromir learned that the wizard too was meant to go with the Ring-bearer to Mordor.

Yet they still had to wait for the sons of Elrond to return as the last of the scouts. Elladan and Elrohir had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they would not speak to any save Elrond.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''I slept, but my heart was awake.  
Hark! My beloved is knocking.  
'Open to me, [...], my love,  
my dove, my perfect one,  
for my head is wet with dew,  
my locks with the drops of the night.'' 

Song of Solomon 5:2  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After having spoken at length to our father, Elrohir went straight to Lalaith, whom he had been missing greatly all along, but I returned to my chambers, bone-weary and shaking with cold, wishing only to have a long, hot bath and then go to bed.

I felt the presence of my lover even before entering my bedchamber. And there, indeed, stood the son of Denethor, just outside the arched entrance, alone in the slowly pouring rain, anguish and stubborn determination fighting on his face.

I sighed. The last thing I wanted right now was another hurtful fight with this brick-headed Man. On the other hand, I already knew Boromir well enough to know that the Gondorian prince – for that was how I saw Denethor's son, who might have lacked the title but not the pride and the royalty – would stay in the rain for days if he had to.

''What do you want, Boromir?'' I asked tiredly.

''May I…" Boromir hesitated, ''may I have a word with you?''

I shrugged in defeat. I could just as well listen to the Man and be done with the whole unfortunate affair. If I can.

_If I will ever get over him._

''Come in, then. It would do no good to stay outside in the rain and become sick ere you can leave for home.''

Boromir took a few tentative steps inside. I brought out a bottle of _miruvor_ and poured us both a cup – I knew we both would need the strength ere this conversation was over.

Boromir's hand was trembling when he took the cup from me. No matter how different our feelings for each other had become, he did not want to part in anger, that much I could see. But having been the one who had hurt me badly, it was up to him to try to make things better.

I reached back, loosened the cord that held my hair together and shook it free with a sigh. It felt so good to let go, after all those long weeks in the Wild.

''You wanted to speak," I said. ''Speak then.''

_And be done with it. All I want is to sleep and to forget_.

''I… I want to ask your forgiveness," Boromir murmured, not daring to look straight at my face. ''I had no right to speak to you like… like I did.''

''That is very true," I replied flatly. ''Yet you did it nevertheless.''

''I… did not mean to hurt you," Boromir continued hesitantly, seeking for the right words and not finding any.

''Does it matter any more?'' I asked. ''Much as I wish that things could be between us as they were, we both know that they would not. Never again.''

''This I know," Boromir nodded, sorrowful. ''And I do know, too, that tis my fault alone… and I honestly, deeply regret hurting you.''

''I am nearly three thousand years old," I said, feeling the anger flash in me briefly. ''I have been hurt before. I got over it. Just as I shall get over this. Over you. I shall live.''

''Are you sure?'' Boromir asked quietly.

I glared at him, wondering what gave me the strength not to throttle him on the spot. What was he thinking I would be? A scorned maiden, fading away in grief after my shining knight's departure? I certainly grieved over my loss, but I had had almost a month to recover, and by now my hurt feelings were safely shut away in a corner of my heart where they could not bother me all the time.

''Very sure," I said with dismay. And I was. Healing, of course, would take a long time – if ever it came at all. But time was something I had aplenty.

''Your brother is not," Boromir said.

I thought again about throttling him. Mayhap I should throttle Elrohir in his stead? Why can my brother not stop interfering with my life? Did I protest when he betrothed Lalaith back when he had hardly reached maturity?

''My brother should not..''

''Your brother is worried about you," Boromir interrupted. ''It is his right, for he is your brother and he loves you. Yet it is of no importance. I would have come to you anyway.''

I raised a doubtful eyebrow. This was something I had not expected – and had a hard time believing.

''You would?''

Boromir nodded with deliberate slowness. ''I would.''

''What for?'' I asked with a shrug. ''You spoke your mind very clearly that last time. I know now what you think of me: that I only shared your bed to serve my father's purposes. What else could be said after that?''

''I… I never believed that…''

''You did. In that break during the Council, you did.''

''Nay… not truly…''

''Then why said you such horrible things to me?''

''I was angry," Boromir admitted. ''I truly believed that your father would secretly plot against mine – that he would take our land… our beautiful city… our inheritance… our very purpose – just to make his daughter a Queen.''

''You still believe thus?'' I asked. Boromir made a helpless gesture.

''What I do or do not believe is of little importance. Such as what I might or might not think of Aragorn. He _is_ Isildur's Heir – for that I have seen enough proof, therefore I have no other choice but to accept his claim. I cannot fight him, not now, nor later. Gondor needs to stay strong in the upcoming dire times. That is our only chance to survive, if ever there is one.''

''And yet 'tis not a happy choice for you," I said. For it clearly was not. Boromir shook his head.

''Nay, 'tis not. He will from take me the only thing still worth living for: my shining city, my duties, my purpose. The only thing I had to offer the Lady Éowyn; so this will be the end of all _her_ hopes as well. Yet I cannot fight him, for his claim is justified according to the laws of Arnor and Gondor, and should I turn against him, the fall of my people would be certain.'' He sighed, weariness creeping over his very being again. ''I only wish you could at least forgive me. I wish not part from you in anger.''

''I forgave you the very day Elrohir and I left," I said tiredly. ''I can even understand your mistrust of some of my father's dealings. But it hurt me very much that you would not trust _me_. That you believed I would deceive you.''

''And that I regret more than anything in my life," Boromir replied, ''for truly, never have I felt so safe as in your arms. And I cannot see how I could have doubted you, even for a fleeting moment.''

He paused. But I was too confused to answer, and so I only looked at him somewhat surprised; yet strangely, I felt much less tired now. Boromir sighed.

''I miss you," he added with a sad little smile. ''I miss the warm safety of your embrace; the touch of your soul that healed my heart, as far as it could be healed; your voice, singing to me in the darkness, keeping the nightmares away. With you, I almost felt like before the shadow had fallen upon me.''

''We are healers," I said simply, ''that is what we do. But you will be gone shortly anyway; and I will stay here. Our time has been measured short, from the beginning.''

''I know that," Boromir replied. ''I have known that all the time. The more I regret my folly that took from us the rest of even that short time.'' He paused again, looking for the right words. ''I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but… would you grant me one final wish?''

''I know not," I eyed him warily. ''What wish would that be?''

''Would you sing to me once again, so that I can sleep in peace one more time?'' Boromir whispered. From the sound of his voice I knew he would beg on his knees if he had to, and pride be damned. ''All my dreams are filled with fire and darkness… I cannot go on like that any more.''

I pondered his request for awhile. I could have made him beg – but did I truly want to hurt him, to humiliate him this way? I thought not. So I let him fret a little; then I nodded slowly.

''I need to rest first," I said, ''for I am weary beyond measure. Yet evening is still far away; right after sunset I will come to you.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

''Are you certain that you want to do this?'' Elrohir asked doubtfully. He came from the rain-soaked garden, just as Boromir had done.

''Were you listening?'' I shot back angrily. His fussing was beginning to upset me to no end. ''Even though I have shared my pain with you, do I not deserve some privacy?''

''I saw him waiting outside," Elrohir shrugged, ''and he seemed to be in a foul mood. I was getting worried… And you truly wish to go to him?''

''I am still concerned about him," I said. ''Those nightmares… they come from the darkness that fell over him during the battle of Osgiliath. Very evil things, they are, and getting worse. But whenever I sing to him in his sleep, they cannot reach him.''

''And you intend to do no more than that?'' Elrohir clearly did not think so.

I gave him a rueful smile. ''You know me too well, brother. But the truth is… I missed him, too. Short is the time fate granted us, and I wish not to waste any of it.''

''Do you want to get hurt again, this much?'' Elrohir asked, troubled about the spell this mortal had me under – at least that was what he thought, and he had told me that in no uncertain terms. I sighed.

''I wish to touch passion again. In mere days, he will be gone, never to return. Should the Valar allow him to survive, which I very much doubt, he will go home, wed the woman he is promised to and build up the House of the Stewards. For this is demanded of him, and he is a Man who takes his duties very seriously.''

''And what about you?'' Elrohir asked. I was silent for a moment; then I shrugged again.

''I shall have my memories.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''Oh that you would kiss me  
with the kisses of your mouth!  
For your love is better than wine [...] 

Draw me after you, let us make haste [...] 

We will exult and rejoice in you;  
We will extol your love more than wine;  
rightly do they love you.'' 

Song of Solomon, 1: 2-4 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And so my lover came to me after sunset and took me in his arms and sang to me in the soft darkness of my bedchamber. And I buried my face in the gentle crook of his neck and wept with guilt and sorrow.

I wept for my beautiful city that would fall into the hand of a stranger.

I wept for my father who would have taken from him the only purpose of his long, hard life – a purpose he had sacrificed anything for, including his family.

I wept for my brother who would be torn apart between his loyalty to our father and the loyalty to the new King.

I wept for the Lady Éowyn who would not become the shining white Queen of Gondor. For naught of what I had promised her would come true, I feared. I might not have become a King by title, but without Isildur's Heir crawling out of the Northern wilderness, I would have ruled Gondor one day, with the White Lady of Rohan on my side. Now, even if she chose to take me on my given word, she would only become the wife of a servant.

But she was born to rule, not to serve.

And so was I.

So I wept for myself, too, over the twisted ways of fate that took from me my shining city, the only thing that was left to me.

And over the twisted ways of my own heart.

For I could not bleed out of it the forbidden love towards my own brother, though mayhap Father would be content with me now. Had I not pledged myself to the Lady Éowyn whom he wanted me to wed? And even if I would never cease to love Faramir, did I not dutifully turn my lust towards another male?

What would Father say, I wondered, if he could see me in this very moment? He despises weakness above anything else.

Yet I am so broken, I cannot hold back any more.

And I wept for my beautiful Elven lover who had given me not only the comfort of flesh but his heart and soul as well, and to whom I had given only sorrow. Yet here he was, rocking me in his arms like he would soothe a frightened child, and singing to me in the dark.

And though I was still deeply ashamed about how I had treated him only a few weeks ago, I could not help but ask: ''Will you lie with me tonight?''

His voice trailed off, and I feared that I might have ruined everything between us again. But then I heard his quiet laughter.

''Tonight and any other that remains to us.''

And so he stayed with me and loved me, like he did in our first night together, touching the fire of passion in each other's soul, and once again, I felt ashamed for accepting his love, which I did not deserve and giving him naught in exchange. I tried to voice my troubled feelings, yet he only laughed softly in the darkness as if I had been but a child and quieted me in the most pleasant way: with his lips on mine. So I spoke no more, accepting gratefully his forgiveness which I deserved even less than I deserved his love, thanking the Valar for those unexpected gifts that brightened my path under the shadow.

And then we slept.

Side by side in my bed, we slept.

And I felt safe in his arms once again, more safe than I had ever felt in my short, harsh life, save mayhap in the womb of my mother.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now, I'd like to put up a challenge. By now everyone must guess who will go with the Fellowship instead of Merry (for the two youngest hobbits will be sent home by Elrond). The question is: who should go instead of Pippin? So far, I had two suggestions: Glorfindel (for obvious reasons: he is the Balrog Slayer after all), and Arwen, in order to give her something useful to do. Snicklepop suggested another Dwarf, for reasons of mathematical balance.

Although I do have my own preference in this matter, I'm not entirely closed to new suggestions. It's not decided yet, so tell me what you think. I can't promise I'll follow any of these suggestions, but they might give me excellent ideas for further stories, so please, tell me them in your reviews.

Soledad

End notes:

1) November – more or less.

2) December – approximately.


	4. 4 Getting the Nod

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Extra warnings: _not_ for devoted Legolas-, Aragorn-, Merry- or Pippin-fans!!! Also, implied m/m interaction. If you don't like it, don't read it – just don't complain after having read it. Nobody forced you to do so, right?

Rating: PG, I guess.

**Author's notes:**

First let me thank you – all of you – for the extremely supportive reviews. Especially to  my faithful readers who had to read basically the same stuff again, with only a few little changes.

Now the real fun begins. There still will be bits and pieces from ''Of Snow and Stone and Wolves'', but only a few, since from now on the whole situation radically changes. Some of the dialogue while changing the Fellowhip has been taken from the 7th volume of the HoMe-books, ''The Treason of Isengard''.

Many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for digging herself through the chaos that is my grammar and eradicating all the ''creativity'' I develop while writing in English.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_''Arise, my love, my fair one,_

_and come away._

_O my dove, in the clefts of the rock,_

_In the covert of the cliff,_

_let me see your face,_

_let me hear your voice,_

_for your voice is sweet,_

_and your face is comely.''_

Song of Solomon, 2:13-14

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**CHAPTER TWO: GETTING THE NOD**

Boromir came awake slowly to the faint music of a harp and to the soft, gentle voice of his lover.  He stretched under the thick blanket and smiled at Elladan who was sitting in a big chair across the room, his long, slender fingers gliding along the harp-sings, his beautiful face pale and strangely thoughtful.

''You got up early,'' he remarked as a sort of greeting.  Elladan slowly nodded and gave him one of his slight half-smiles.

''You should rise, too, _meleth-nin_.  Father will call another gathering at the third hour, I heard.  The Company of the Ring has to be chosen.  In seven days, they must depart, or they will be caught by the winter.''

''This year the winter will be long and hard,'' Boromir murmured, ''I can feel it in my bones. I, too, have to depart for Minas Tirith soon.  Hopefully, our self-proclaimed King will see the urgency too.  Otherwise I might leave without him.''

Elladan sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.  Sometimes he honestly asked himself why they put up with all these stubborn Men of Númenórean descent.  For Aragorn was little better when he had one of his moods.

''You ought to make your peace with Estel, soon... or else the two of you shall be at each other's throats all the way till Minas Tirith.  And just whom would _that_ serve?''

''I shall not fight him,'' Boromir said, ''as I already told you yestereve.  If he wants to come to Minas Tirith with me, so be it.  Better I get used to him while my father is not around to make things worse.''

''Would he?'' Elladan asked earnestly.

Boromir laughed mirthlessly.  What a question!

''Oh, he most certainly would.  You call _me_ stubborn and single-minded, for nothing but my city and her safety seems to be in my heart; you should hear my father who has done naught but rule her for half a century... as did all his father's fathers before him.  The Stewards of Gondor ruled well, Elladan.  It is hard for us to step down.  And who can promise us for certain that Arathorn son of Aragorn _would_, in truth,  restore the land to its strength and glory of old?''

''No-one can,'' Elladan agreed, ''and I do understand that it is hard to leave old, well-walked paths for new ones that only contain a promise.  But I fear you shall not have any other choice.  And sometimes a promise can do more than a whole army of strong Men with sharp weapons.''

''In your waking dreams, mayhap,'' Boromir sighed.  ''Still, I shall be no hindrance for our King-to-be if it is his desire to defend our city.  Yet if he tarries too much, I cannot wait for him.  I have already wasted too much time here.''

''You think so?'' Elladan did not flinch, but the hurt was clearly to see in his darkening eyes.  Boromir reached out a hand to him.

''Forgive me.  That was not what I meant.''

''Oh, I believe it was, indeed,'' Elladan bit his lip, then he swallowed and fought to remain calm.  ''Never mind.  I do understand your longing to return home.  I would feel the same if Imladris were in great peril.  I wish I could go with you, at least for a part of the way, but I fear Father would not approve.  And I have tested his patience with my... indiscretions already hard enough.''

''You are needed here just as much as I am needed home,'' Boromir offered awkwardly. Elladan tilted his head on one side with a strange, bird-like jerk and lifted up one of his shoulders shortly.

''Maybe, in a way.  Now, you should get dressed and eat something ere you walk over to Father's house.  I shall see you later.''

* * * * * * * * * * *

While the young hobbits had second breakfast in the chambers of their grumpy old uncle, and Estel went to see Arwen, and my beloved remained in the guest house to brood til my arrival, I went to the study of my father, where I knew I would find him at this time of the day. 

He was already working on the planning of his daily routine with the aid of Erestor and Lindir who looked up curiously when they saw me enter the room.  I rarely visited Father this early.  I bowed towards my father, greeted the others and said:

''I regret to disturb your work, Father, but I require a word with you, ere the onset of this gathering.''

''You are no disturbance; we are almost done, and Erestor is very well able to finish without me.''  Father looked at his aides and dismissed them with a nod.  ''Leave us alone, please.''

Erestor and his spouse left as they were asked, and now Father looked at me askance.

''What is it you want, my son?''

I closed my eyes, for this decision was still hard for me to bear.  I had not hoped that he would even consider letting me go with Boromir, at least for a good part of the journey, but I had to try nevertheless.  This one path only was left for me, and I knew it would hit my father hard, for I had not yet spoken to him of my choice – still, I had to follow my heart.  I could not go on differently.

''I ask you to let me go with the company of the Ring, Father,'' I said after a moment of heavy silence.  ''I wish to execute my Right of Protection.''

My father paled at these words and became silent for what seemed for ever.

''So you have chosen,'' he finally said, and the hidden pain in his voice was almost unbearable, for I love him greatly and never wanted to cause him such pain, even less now that he was fearing my sister's choice greatly.  Yet I could deny the longing of my heart for fulfillment even less; and if the only path to fulfillment was to lay down my life and die, I was ready to walk that path.

''Indeed, Father, I have.''

''Does he know?'' my father asked.  I shook my head.

"Nay; nor do I wish him to ever learn of it.''

''Why not? He surely has a right to know?''

''It would do no good to either of us.  He does not love me the way I love him; and he is guilt-ridden enough for things he did not choose and cannot change as it is--I wish not to add to his burden.  He never promised me aught; nor is it his fault that I have fallen for him as I never had before.''  I shrugged.  ''Then again, I might have chosen to remain in Middle-earth even without him; you always knew that.''

My father raised a questioning eyebrow.  ''I did?''

I nodded.  ''Why else would you have feared my final choice so much all my life?  You were never worried about Elrohir.''

''That is true,'' my father sighed.  ''Yet to fear it is by far less painful than to know the inevitable loss has come.  Are you sure about your chosen path, my son?''

''Yes, Father.  I shall remain here as long as Elrohir remains, for I could never leave him behind.  But once he sets sail for the Blessed Realm, I shall walk the path of your own brother.''

My father was silent again for some time.  Then he nodded.

''So be it.  The choice is yours, as it was mine and my brother's and as it will be Elrohir's. I accept your choice, as I always did.''

* * * * * * * * * * *

At the third hour of the day, a small gathering was summoned to the same meeting place where the Council had been held almost a month earlier.  The young hobbit, Frodo, was there, with his faithful man-servant and the two even younger ones of his small kin whom Boromir still had a hard time telling apart; then, of course, Mithrandir, crouching on a bench like an old, grey vulture, watching everyone with never-tiring, keen eyes, and the inevitable Heir of Isildur.

Elrond greeted them all, then he looked gravely at Frodo.

''The time has come,'' he said.  ''If the Ring is to sent out, it must go soon.  But those who go with it must not count on their errand being aided by war or force.  They must pass into the domain of the Enemy far from aid.  Do you still hold to your word, Frodo, that you shall be the Ring-bearer?''

The anguish was clearly shown on that small, vulnerable face, deep blue eyes wide with fear, but the young hobbit did not falter.

''I do,'' he said; then, reaching out to his servant for aid, he added: ''I will go with Sam.''

''Then I cannot help you much, not even with counsel,'' said Elrond, and Boromir felt like screaming again.  The poor little guy was already scared to death, even without having been told how utterly helpless his whole errand was.

Looking at that Elvish face again, Boromir was hard-pressed to believe that the hobbit was, indeed, about eleven years his senior and had faced the Nameless Fear and had been bodily harmed by it.  He looked so much like a child – yet he was not.  He was a grown person, who prepared to go into mortal danger, without help.  Just how much bravery dwelt in that little heart?

''I can foresee very little of your road,'' Elrond continued; ''and how your task is to be achieved, I do not know.  The Shadow has crept now to the feet of the Mountains, and draws nigh even to the borders of the Greyflood; and under the Shadow all is dark to me.''

_Dark, indeed_, Boromir thought, withstanding the urge to double over with pain at these words.  He had spent the night in peaceful sleep once again, thank to Elladan's songs, yet even now he could feel the darkness lingering just beyond the horizon, and he knew, once he left the valley, he would be unprotected.  And that hateful fear he had never known before Osgiliath took his heart in a tight, icy grip again.

Yet it was not death itself he feared.  To death he was used as all soldiers are, knowing that one day or another, they were to meet, inevitably.

It was darkness that filled his heart with horror.

Darkness that he would have to endure alone from now on.

For the rest of his journey.

For the rest of his life. How ever long or short it might be.

''And I shall choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will or fortune allows,'' Elrond was still speaking to the young hobbit.  ''The number must be few, since your hope is in speed or secrecy.  Had I a host of Elves in armor of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor.''

_And you have failed once already_, Boromir thought grimly.  _It was Isildur, a mortal Man, who cut the ring off the Black Hand, not one of your proud Elven Lords.  You blame him for keeping the Ring, yet it was _him_, no one else, who broke the strength of the Enemy, taking from him the very source of his power_.

''Nine and no more should there be,'' Elrond announced; ''and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil.  Since Frodo is still willing, then Frodo as Ring-bearer must be the first choice.  And if Frodo goes, then Sam Gamgee must go, too, because that was promised, and my heart tells me that their fates are woven together.''

''And if two hobbits go, then I must go,'' said Gandalf with a mischievous grin, ''for my wits tell me that I shall be needed; and indeed, _my_ fate seems much entangled with hobbits. Taking care of hobbits is not a task that every one would like, but I am used to it.''

''You will be needed many times before the journey's end, Gandalf,'' Elrond warned, foresight hitting him unexpectedly. ''But maybe when there is most need you will not be there.  This is your greatest peril, and I shall not have peace till I see you again.''

''And yet this might be the most pressing thing for me to do and mayhap the end of my long labors in Middle-earth, so that I finally can go back to the fields of my youth and rest when all is done,'' Gandalf replied with a shrug and a sigh.  ''I cannot stay behind.''

''That is three, then,'' said Elrond. ''If there are others, they should represent the other free folk of the world.''

''I shall go on behalf of Men,'' said Strider, giving Boromir a pointed look. ''I claim some right to share in the adventures of the Ring; but I wish also to go out of friendship for Frodo, and therefore I will ask his leave to be his companion.''

''I could choose no one more gladly,'' said Frodo. ''I had thought of begging what is freely offered.'' He took Strider's hand. ''Only I believed you were going to Minas Tirith with Boromir.''

''So did I,'' Boromir commented in a low voice, audible only for the keen ears of an Elf – or a Ranger of the North.

''Boromir will also come,'' Gandalf hurriedly intervened, ere the two stubborn Men could get any deeper into an unnecessary argument. ''Since he is resolved to return as soon as he can to his own land, to the siege and war that he has told of, his way goes with ours for quite some length. He is a valiant man.''

This announcement as well as the unexpected compliment surprised Boromir greatly. Never would he expected them to trust him even near the Ring; not after his passionate plea in the Council to give it to Gondor as a weapon or to wield it against the Enemy. Yet as he looked into those deep, wise eyes again, he understood that this was a peace offer, at least from the wizard if not  from his soon-to-be King, and accepted it with a simple nod.

''For the Elves I would choose Legolas of Mirkwood,'' said Elrond, ''and for the Dwarves Gimli son of Glóin. If they are willing to go with you, even as far as Moria, they will be a help to you.''

To their great surprise, however, Legolas shook his head regretfully.

''I am deeply ashamed that I have to withdraw your offer, my Lord, but it seems I cannot fulfill my promise after all. Yestereve, a messenger arrived from Mirkwood with my father's plea to return home as soon as I am able to. Evil troops of Dol Guldur have assailed our patrols and are closing upon our city even as we speak. I shall leave after this meeting without further delay.''

''Are you sure this is what you should do?'' Aragorn asked sharply. ''There is more depending on this quest than just the fate of Mirkwood. If we fail, your home will be destroyed, whether you are there or not.''

''It matters little what I would or would not like to do,'' answered Legolas, gritting his teeth in barely surpressed fury. ''This is a matter of duty and honour. I am the Crown Prince of Mirkwood, and my land – and my _King_ – are in need of my service. Seldom are the wearers or the heirs of a crown allowed to choose their adventures at their own liking. Do you intend to become a proper King, you should learn this, too.''

Aragorn was about to give him a less than friendly answer, but Elrond raised an elegant hand and silenced him.

''I understand and respect your decision, Legolas Thranduilion, the more so for I know it has not been easily made,'' he said. ''Be comforted; I doubt not that I shall find someone in my household to take your place.''

With that, he looked directly of Boromir, who felt a strange warmth pooling around his own heart. Could it be that Elrond, in spite of Elladan's obvious doubts, would be ready to let his firstborn go with them? Having the strength, the wisdom and the healing powers of Elladan in the Company would, no doubt, be very helpful for both hobbits and Men. 

_Especially for _one_ of the Men_, Boromir added as an afterthought, and a smile began to play about the corner of his mouth.

Ere he could have said anything, though – and he certainly was not beyond begging in this matter –, the youngest hobbit, the one the others called 'Pippin', intervened.

''But that will leave no place for us!'' he cried in dismay. ''We do not want to be left behind. We want to go with Frodo.''

''That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead,'' said Elrond, trying to keep things in hand. He clearly did not like the idea of _four_ hobbits walking off with the Ring.

''Neither does Frodo,'' said Merry, whole-heartedly supporting Pippin, and Boromir's heart sank, for he believed Elrond would give in to the begging of the little ones after all. It _was_ hard to resist them, once they became determined to get something. ''Nor do any of you see clearly. Do you truly believe that you can challenge Sauron with your powers? Even if you choose for the quest an Elf-Lord, such as Glorfindel?''

''You speak truly and well,'' said Elrond, yet clearly in disagreement, and Boromir almost began to hope again, ''But I am in doubt. I judge that the younger of you two, Peregrin Took, should remain. My heart is against his going.''

And the glance he spared for Boromir made it clear why.

''Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied in a sack,'' said the youngest hobbit stubbornly. ''For otherwise I shall follow the Company.''

His set jaw and burning eyes left no doubt that he meant it. But Elrond let himself not be blackmailed into something he did not agree with.

''I shall do so if the need arises,'' he answered in an authoritative tone. ''And since you seem not to listen to reason, I shall send your cousin, Meriadoc back with you as well. The success of this quest, so slim the chance might be, is _my_ responsibility, and I shall not risk the fate of Middle-earth because of one belligerent hobbit. Now, sit down and be quiet!''

Pippin opened his mouth to protest, but the grey eyes of Elrond bore into his own brown ones like daggers of ice, so he shut up miserably and squatted down.

''What do you have against Merry and Pippin?'' said Frodo, clearly miserable that his friends were not included. ''They have come far with me, and can you not see how it grieves them to be left behind now?''

''Peregrin would go with you out of love for you, if he were bidden, we all can see _that_,'' said Gandalf gently; ''but his heart is not truly in such perilous adventures, much though he loves you. Merry will be grieved, 'tis true, but Elrond's decision is wise. He is merry in name and merry in heart, but this quest is not for him, nor for any hobbit, unless fate and duty chooses him. But do not be distressed: I think there may be other work for them to do, so that they will not be left long idle.''

Merry nodded, clearly unhappy with the decision, but – unlike Pippin, who was still growling under his breath – mature enough to understand its necessity. Gandalf silently gave his curly head a fatherly pat, and Merry smiled at him weakly, determined not to disappoint their old friend.

''Whom of your household shall you send on this quest then?'' Galdor from the Havens asked.

''_This_ is the question we shall discuss now,'' Elrond answered with a sigh. ''For not only do we need to find someone to replace Legolas, but also my eldest asked to be sent with the Company, and I cannot reject him in this matter; so we only need to find two more persons.''

''Why is it that you cannot reject him?'' Gildor Inglorion asked with an arched eyebrow. ''Is it not _your_ decision to make?''

''It is,'' Elrond nodded, ''yet Elladan wants to execute his Right of Protection, and that is not something I can refuse, by our laws and customs. Therefore, he shall go with the Company and represent the Peredhil, the Children of Lúthien, who also need to play their role in these final events of our struggle against the Darkness.''

''The Right of Protection?'' Gildor repeated with a frown.  ''Is then Elladan bound to the son of Denethor?''

''Not yet,'' Elladan stepped into the circle, ere his father could answer, ''but 'tis something I intend to do ere we leave.''

The two Elves glared at each other with open hostility for a moment, then Elladan shrugged, turned away and sat down next to Boromir.

''What was _that_ all about?'' Boromir asked in a low voice, not liking that every one else seemed to know something he did not.  Elladan patted his knee affectionately.

''I shall tell you later.  Listen now.''

''In that case,'' Gildor was saying, ''I wish to go with the Company as well.''

Not many things could truly surprise Elrond after three Ages spent in Middle-earth and having seen many defeats and many fruitless victories – this, however, was one of these things.

''Why should you want to do this?'' he asked in utter bewilderment. Gildor shrugged, his chiseled features becoming even harder, sea-colored eyes darkening with sorrow.

''This is what Celebrimbor would wish to do – yet he is dead, through the Black Hand that made the Ring. Therefore, I shall go in his stead, to witness the destruction of that cursed Ring that cost him his life and his dreams of a better Middle-earth.''

''Only if I should decide to send you with them,'' said Elrond icily. There was clearly no love lost between these two Elf-lords. Gildor's eyes, too, became ice cold, lips tightening to a thin line.

''Fail me not again, Elrond Peredhel. You failed me once, and Ost-in-Edhil was burnt to the ground and the noblest of Finwë's descendants put to death by slow torture in his own house. _I was_ the one to find his charred and mutilated body after Sauron's troops deserted the ruins. You did not even have the decency to look out for him – dare not to keep me from seeing his death avenged!''

''This quest is not for your vengeance,'' Elrond countered, paling considerably in face of these horrible accusations. This was true, his failure to break through the armies of Sauron and free the chief city of Eregion – the images of that burning city still haunted him in his dreams, no matter how much pain and death he had seen before. For this was the only one he felt responsible for, even if he had tried everything in his power to get there in time(1).

''It is for _me_,'' Gildor replied in a cold, terrible voice, ''and I shall see it fulfilled, with or without your leave. Though it would do good for the company to have someone with them who actually _has_ fought Sauron before.''

''If I needed a warlord or a great warrior, I always could send Glorfindel,'' Elrond said, not quite ready to give in just yet.

''And let the servants of the enemy become aware of the importance of the quest?'' Gildor shrugged. ''I think not. The power that is in Glorfindel would call to evil things just as much as the Ring does. There is no such power in me.''

''Gildor is right in that,'' said Glorfindel quietly. ''And what is more, I do believe that the place I am needed most right now is Mirkwood. I shall go with Legolas, if you agree, my Lord. 'Tis time to face Dol Guldur openly and confront its Nazgúl captain. The Company shall need distraction elsewhere, in order to travel safely – as safe as it can be in these times.''

''But I need you here,'' Elrond pointed out. ''If Gandalf is right – and he usually is – Saruman will come, thinking that we are hiding the Ring. I have need of a Captain to lead the defense of the valley.''

''You have Erestor,'' Glorfindel replied. ''He has fought in both major wars of this Age, and he still knows how to command his troops. _And_ you have Elrohir as well. Nay, my Lord, you need me not here. But Thranduil does need me in Mirkwood. There is no-one within his borders who would have the strength to challenge a Nazgúl. Nor does he have powers to protect his realm as you do.''

''So you advise me to send Gildor?'' Elrond asked doubtfully.

''I only say his claim is _justified_,'' Glorfindel stated calmly.

''In a sense, it is,'' said Elrond; ''yet if we were out for vengeance, Erestor could ask with the same right to be sent out.''

''I do not,'' Erestor said quietly.

''Nor would his claim be as justified as Gildor's,'' Glorfindel stressed. ''Celebrimbor had no sons of his own. He made Gildor to his heir – and he wanted the One Ring to be destroyed. 'Tis Gildor's right – and his duty – to fulfill Celebrimbor's legacy.''

''Also, I used to be a Ring-bearer for a short time,'' Gildor added, his hard and beautiful face clouded with sorrow. ''For was I not the one who brought the Three to their first Keepers? So, I know all too well what powers we are facing.''

''Yet you are not free to do as you please any more,'' Elrond reminded him; ''even less so than Legolas. You are the Lord of your people and they need your leadership.''

''Unlike my grandfather, I _do_ have the support of my people in this(2),'' Gildor replied grimly.  ''And I already have named my heir, should I not return. You cannot hold me back, Elrond. You have neither the right nor the power to do so.''

This Elrond new all too well, of course, even though it was hard for him to admit. But finally – with a very unhappy sigh – he gave in.

''So be it.  Now we only have to find one more for the Company.''

''You have found her, father,'' the clear voice of Arwen Undómiel interrupted; the Elf-lady came forth from the background where she had been listening to the heated discussion the whole time and added calmly. ''You have spoken about the partaking of the Children of Lúthien, and I do not deny Elladan his right to go. But if he goes, then so shall I. For it is I who can enchant the hearts of Elves, Men and beasts if the need arises; only I have inherited the magic that lived in Lúthien, and only I can wield it. Swords and arrows are useful, but there are enemies you cannot defeat with weapons.''

''Arwen, nay!'' Aragorn protested, though the daughter of Elrond listened to him little. ''You cannot endanger yourself! You must stay here where it is safe!''

''But if the servants of Sauron could feel the power that is in _Glorfindel_, can they not feel _yours_ just as well?'' Boromir asked. Unlike Aragorn, he _did_ see the merits of bringing an Elven sorceress with them – as long as she did not bring even more perils upon the Company.

''Nay,'' Arwen smiled, ''for the magic of Melian that lives in me comes form the flesh of Arda itself. 'Tis _one_ with the powers of the Earth and cannot be felt as something coming from the outside. You shall be safe with me – and you shall be in need of me. Mithrandir knows that I am right.''

''I know,'' the wizard nodded sadly, "though I hoped it would not come to that.''

''So did I,'' Elrond sighed, ''but Arwen is right, I fear. She alone can weave a veil of magic around you to hide you from the eyes of the Enemy. She alone can put evil beasts to sleep with a song, so that they cannot follow your paths. As much as I would rather keep her at home, I must allow her to go with you.''

'''Tis folly,'' Aragorn growled. ''You should have chosen someone else.''

''And just who, pray you, should that be?'' Elrond inquired pointedly, having enough from his foster son's bickering. ''More Elf-lords I might not send, for though their power is great, 'tis not great enough. They cannot walk unhidden from wrath and spirit of evil like Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of the House of Eärendil, last daughter of Lúthien can do. And tidings of the Company would soon reach Mordor, by day or night.''

And so, no matter how much Aragorn protested – arguing that an Elven Princess should not be sent out on a quest this perilous – it was decided that Arwen Undómiel, indeed, should be the 9th member of the Ring's Company, and she accepted her choice with great dignity, knowing that this was the final struggle of her family in a long war against the Darkness that had lasted through all three Ages of Middle-earth.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next few days were spent in eager preparations. The Sword of Elendil had been forged anew by the skilled Elven smiths of the valley, and on its blade was adorned with a device of seven stars set between the crescent Moon and the rayed Sun, thus representing both High Kingship and the southern Towers of the Moon and the Sun, the cities of Isildur and Anárion, just as it had been during the days of Elendil himself.

And Aragorn gave it a new name, the name _Brandir_(3), to make his claim clear to any one, and Boromir's heart darkened with bitter wrath, for he, too, was of the line of Isildur, though not descending from father-to-father, and could have made that claim himself, if not for Pelendur's law(4).

Mithrandir often sought out the company of Gildor Inglorion in these days, who had spent this whole Age traveling across Middle-earth and knew every way and path between the North and the South, the West and the East. They sometimes invited Elladan to their meetings to help them ponder over the maps and books of ancient lore that were kept in Elrond's library; and sometimes Aragorn and Boromir, too, for the latter knew the western borders of Mordor better than they did.

During these private councils Boromir could not help but notice the tension between Gildor and Aragorn (though it seemed there were not many people Gildor actually _did_ get along).  Whatever the Elf-lord proposed, the Ranger always had a pointed remark to make in response. After a few days of this, Boromir felt the insane urge to throttle his future King, but Gildor's only reactions were an elegantly arched eyebrow and an overly patient smile, of the sort that people usually give ill-mannered children – which, of course, infuriated Aragorn even more.

Whenever Boromir tried to understand the roots for their hostility, Elladan only shrugged, telling him that it was a very long story and should not be discussed behind the backs of the people involved, so after a while he stopped asking, not wanting to upset his lover more than he already had been.

For Elladan was strangely thoughtful in those days, his eyes clouded with hidden grief and his songs grew more and more sorrowful with every passing night, and their love-making, too, had changed from heated and passionate couplings to slow, gentle loving. Yet when Boromir asked what was troubling him now, that they had got Elrond's unexpected leave, his Elf (as he had begun to think of him) only shook his head, smiled wearily and said that there was much on his mind and that there was naught Boromir should worry about.

So their remaining days in Imladris were spent in quiet intimacy, until the eve of the Company's departure came.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Gil-galad had sent Elrond to Eregion with troops to Celebrimbor's aid, but he couldn't break through to Ost-in-Edhil in time.

(2) The people of Nargothrond did _not_ support Finrod Felagund in his task to help Beren to get the Silmaril from Morgoth. Michael Martinez has a theory about the unique bonding between an Elf-lord and his people and assumes that Finrod was doomed to lose because of the lack of his people's support. See: ''Who is like the wise Elf?''

Of course, there is no canon proof that Gildor would be Finrod's grandson. It's  something I've made up. More about it can be found in my other story, ''Innocence''.

(3) This is the name given the Sword in ''The Treason of Isengard'', my basic guideline to this AU. Branding is obviously an ''English'' name (Old English: brand = sword), and consorts with the names Ingold and Elfstone, which Tolkien originally considered instead of Aragorn. So states Christopher Tolkien in his comments.

(4) Sorry, I can't give the exact location of _that_ piece of canon, since I don't have that particular volume of the HoME series. But it is also mentioned in Michael Martinez' article ''The Men who would be Stewards.''


	5. 5 Promises

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction - don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG, I guess.

**Author's notes:**

Firstly, I want to thank all my reviewers for the positive feedback. Quite frankly, I was a little afraid to be lynched by the enraged Legolas-, Merry- and Pippin-fans.g

Ah, and Finch: I hope your were thinking of Glorfindel saying you were glad I sent a certain blonde Elf back to Mirkwood. Because _my_ Legolas has _never_ been and _will_ never be blonde! I'm quite content with Orlando Bloom's face and his performance, but I'd _never_ accept that hyperoxyd wig. Not in seven Hells! So, to clear up all misunderstandings for those who don't know my other stories, for me Legolas has the same hair as all Wood-Elves – generally auburn, but changes color slightly with the change of the seasons. Detailed description in ''Innocence'', if anyone is interested.

This is a somewhat shorter chapter now, combining the altered bonding scene from ''Of Snow and Stone and Wolves'' and an altered movie scene between Arwen and Aragorn. The latter is more important for the outcome of this AU than you might believe, so pay close attention. Since Glorfindel already left for Mirkwood, his lines went to Gildor and Elrond here.

**Dedication:**

This chapter is for Deborah who always wanted to know where the Shielding Stone came from. Otherwise, this is still Isabeau's birthday present – whom I owe everything for beta-reading and for her friendship. ;-P

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_''Oh that you were like a brother to me,_

_That nursed at my mother's breast!_

_If I met you outside, I would kiss you,_

_And none would despise me._

_I would lead you and bring you_

_Into the house of my mother,_

_And into the chamber of her that conceived me._

_I would give you spiced wine to drink,_

_The juice of my pomegranates._

_Oh that his left hand were under my head_

_And that his right hand embraced me!''_

(The Song of Solomon, 8:1-4)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**CHAPTER THREE: PROMISES**

On the very eve of the our departure, Elladan finally summoned me to the library of his father, where I had not been since that fateful Council; for – as he said – there was a  small but important matter that had to be taken care of in the circle of the family, ere we set out upon our quest. I admit to have been a little bewildered, for in all our times together, my Elf had never felt the necessity to make things between us overly ceremonial.

The more surprised I was when I found not only the father and the siblings of my lover in the airy, sunlit room, but also Erestor and that blonde beauty named Lindir he goes nowhere without, my future King and Gildor Inglorion as well.

''Did you not say this would be a family meeting?'' I asked. But Elladan only smiled in sorrow and nodded slowly.

''Oh, but it is.  Erestor is my foster brother, just like Estel; and Lindir is his spouse. As for the Lord Gildor, he belongs to my mother's family. I asked them to come as my witnesses.''

''Witnesses for what?'' I asked, not liking the shadowy way things were going.

''I have decided to execute my Right of Protection," Elladan replied. ''As the Shadow has already fallen upon your heart on that day in Osgiliath, you are in great peril, both from the seductive powers of the Ring itself, that now has an easier way to your heart, _and_ from the minions of the Enemy who shall be drawn to you because of it. But I have something to shield you from both perils.''

He held up a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; it was clearly of the finest Elven handiwork if I ever saw it; and the stone had a mild, soft light glowing in it like a far away white star.

''This," said Elladan, ''is Adamant, one of the Elf-Stones that came back with the Noldor from over the Sea; made by the great Fëanor himself, it contains the undying light of Valinor. 'Tis said that he made it as a work of study before crafting the Great Jewels. It went as a weregild from Maedhros to Finrod Felagund and was rescued from the ruins of Nargothrond by Celebrimbor, who later made the collar for it himself and gave it to Círdan the Shipwright on the Isle of Balar. Through Gil-galad it came to my father, and he gave it to me when I reached maturity, more than twenty centuries ago. It is called the Shielding Stone, for it is for the protection of one's beloved; yet I have not found any one I would want to gift it upon ere I met you.  Now I want _you_ to wear it.''

I was so stunned I could not even breathe for a while. Surely, I _have_ heard of the magical powers of the Elf-Stones that returned with the nobles of the High-Elves from the Blessed Realm, yet it was certainly unheard of to give such a Stone to a mere mortal.

''Elladan, you cannot...''

''Oh, but he can," the clear, slightly hard voice of Gildor cut in. ''The Adamant was gifted upon him for this exact purpose only. He asked us to witness so that no one can ever doubt your right to wear the Shielding Stone, and as the heir of Celebrimbor, I am very glad that it finally can fulfill its true purpose.''

He paused, and his sea-colored eyes turned dark with sorrow, walking the paths of memories from a time long gone.

''The Shielding Stone was made to connect the _fëa_s of two lovers over many leagues, even through time itself," he then continued, ''bringing back living memories of shared joy, should they become separated, as if you were having one of the Elven waking dreams.''

I gazed at the collar in Elladan's hand in wonder.

''That tiny Stone can do such thing?''

''Not the Stone itself," Elladan laughed quietly. ''Its powers are great, but they only work for a soul that is bonded to another. Fear not," he added a little sadly, seeing the slight flinch in my demeanor, ''I do not ask you to wed me. Even if the customs of your people would allow such union, you are already promised to Éowyn of Rohan, and I respect that. I only intend to bond _myself_ to you, without forcing any obligations upon you. 'Tis a gift, given freely by me – and I hope you would choose to accept it freely in turn."

''But I heard that when Elves bond themselves, it is till death," I said warily.

''Nay, 'tis even beyond Death and beyond the Sea, going on even in Mandos' Hall till the end of Eä," said Elrond quietly. ''That is why we only can bond ourselves to another one single time. Some of us never find a devotion strong enough to take such a final step, yet when we do, it brings us a fulfillment we cannot find otherwise. Not even in a new love after having lost our true mate''

''But should this not be something felt by both sides?'' I asked, reluctant to let Elladan enter such a one-sided bond. It felt not right to allow my Elf to make such a sacrifice – and not being able to give him equal devotion.

''In most cases it is," Elrond nodded, ''and I cannot say that the choice of my son makes me happy. But sometimes we have to find our fulfillment in giving, without receiving – and some of us can even do it without bitterness.''

I was still hesitating, not fully persuaded by his arguments, when the Lady Undómiel came forth and laid a feather-light hand upon my forearm.

''Understand this, son of Gondor," she said; ''Elladan has given you his heart as only Elves can do, and whether you accept this bond or not, there will be no one else for him in his whole life. Deny him the fulfillment of his love, and you condemn him to loneliness. For this is our way, and we cannot change it, even if we wanted.''

The enormity of what she was saying hit me like an iron fist. How could I either accept or reject such an enormous gift? I am but a Man, certainly not worthy of such sacrifice... But then I looked in the clear, sorrowful eyes of my lover and understood that this was the only thing I really _could_ give him, in spite of the different nature of our feelings for each other.  And that I had no right to deny him what little I could give.

''I gratefully accept then," I said with a slight bow of my head. ''I only wish I could do the same thing for you.''

Elladan smiled; not one of his wry half-grins this time, but a smile that made his chiseled features glow from the inside.

''We cannot change the ways of our heart by will alone," he answered gently, ''and I never asked you for anything you cannot give.''

''Indeed, you did not," I nodded; then I shifted a little uncomfortably. ''What do I have to do, then?''

''Nothing," Elladan replied, still smiling. ''Tis _my_ oath, not yours. I asked Gildor to witness, for he is the eldest of our relatives who is dwelling in my father's house right now – and this is something where the blessing of the whole family is usually asked for.''

He gently laid the silver collar around my neck, and it closed with a slight click and became smooth and firm all around at once, for it had no clasp whatsoever, only the ancient Elven magic that was wrought in its sacred metal – and it felt as warm and light as a silken ribbon, keeping the warmth and gentleness of his touch.

And Elladan smiled again and spoke in a quiet but firm voice, not in Quenya or the Common Speech, but in the ancient tongue of Gondor, to my great surprise:

Boromir son of Denethor

To thee I pledge my love

Now and for ever,

Beyond the Sea and beyond Death itself,

To watch over you

And to protect you from all things of evil,

from Fire and Darkness

and from the shadows of evil long gone.

This vow I speak before Manwë Súlimo,

Lord of the Winds, King of the Valar

and before Varda, Queen of the Stars;

and this oath I swear

in the Name of Eru, Ilúvatar,

the Maker of all things

above and beneath the Sky and the Sea.

And by the naming of the Name that was only spoken in the most solemn of oaths, the white stone began glowing again and its light never darkened as long as I was alive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the ceremony was over, Boromir left the Great House, too shaken from Elladan's sacrifice and the depths of his love to speak to anyone right away. Elladan seemed to understand him perfectly – in fact, as soon as their bond, however one-sided, had been blessed by Elrond (however reluctantly), they seemed to sense each other's feelings in a completely new way. At least when they were near each other.

''You are in need of some time alone," Elladan said. ''Go and find a place to think. I shall not demand from you aught that you have not already given me freely. Remember, _you_ are not the one bound. Not to _me_.''

That might have been true, technically, but as he was sitting in the midst of one of those lovely, sun-drenched groves near the bridge of the Bruinen, listening to the soft voices of leaves and the wind talking above his head, Boromir became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he already _belonged_ to Elladan, much more than he was likely to ever belong to Éowyn of Rohan, whom he had been promised to – in a way.

They had not only shared their bodies, Elladan and himself, but the deepest secrets of their souls as well – and at least Elladan had shared his heart, too. And though Boromir did not share the full depths of his lover's feelings – not yet –, what he felt for the fair and brave Elf was dangerously close to...

Nay, that could not be! His heart belonged to Faramir, however sinful and forbidden those feelings had been; _and_ he had promised Éowyn to wed her for the good of both Rohan and Gondor, and to save her from a fate that seemed worse than death to her. He could not give Elladan aught that would be worth of such sacrifice.

And yet... there were moments when he wished he could forget his duty, his promises, even his forbidden love and lose himself in Elladan's arms completely. For he came to understand that part of his infatuation towards Faramir had been caused by the fact that there could never be any fulfillment. More than anything else, his love for his own brother was a dream – a bitter, painful, shaming dream, yet still a dream.

And dreams seldom became reality.

What he had with Elladan, though, was real. Painfully, heartbreakingly real for both of them – for Elladan mayhap even more, for _his_ heart was not divided, and his feelings, his passion, his desire were all focused on Boromir alone. Elves were said to love like that, and though Boromir still could not understand what had made Elrond's eldest fall for him and choose _him_ of all people, he slowly came to realize that it was hard to remain unaffected while becoming the focus of an Elf's deepest feelings.

If anything, it made him feel differently about himself. Through Elladan's eyes he could see himself as someone worthy of being loved. And that did _not_ make things any easier.

Early on, it had been quite simple to accept the demands of his high birth: to keep the interests of his land and his people in highest regard, before everything else; to wed whom his father told him to wed, for the good of Gondor; to put the good of Gondor before his own happiness. He was the Heir of the Steward; those were the things a man in his status was expected to do. And ever since his father had detected his dirty little secret, he had even been glad to do so. To fulfill his duty, even if he had brought shame upon himself and his House.

Meeting Elladan had made things truly disturbing. Not the easy acceptance the Elves of the valley had reacted to their affair with – even though it _had_ shocked him a little at first.  Not even the speed with which Elladan had developed an all-engulfing passion for him. Nay, it was the easiness with which he had slid into this relationship himself that unsettled him greatly. And the sad truth was that it was not a relationship his father would ever accept, even if he were not sworn to marry Éowyn of Rohan.

What would his father say if he could see his happiness? For there was no use denying that he was happy with his Elf, happier than he had ever been in his whole life. Not that they would never hurt each other's feelings – they most obviously did, he more than Elladan, but they both did it at times. Yet they came back together, again and again, to reconcile, to make amends, to mend the fences.

Was there a way for him out of this tangle of need, desire, co-dependence and true fondness? Was this what people commonly called love? 'Twas so very different from the hidden (and guilty) feelings he had kept for his lover for so long... far too long, indeed. However hard he tried, he could not feel guilty for his... feelings towards Elladan. For he definitely _had_ feelings for his Elf. Not the same ones he had for his brother, but honest ones nevertheless. And they felt as natural as rain – though his father would surely have seen things differently.

Could he ever stand before his father and tell him that he had chosen a male Elf, not only for his bed but for the rest of his life, even if he were able to sort out his feelings and make a decision? Could he live in exile – for the Lord Denethor would doubtlessly disown him for such perversion and forbid him to come within the borders of Gondor ever again? Could he forsake his whole life, in the hope that he would eventually fall _in love_ with his lover, and that this would be enough to live for? Without honor, without a purpose, without the respect of his own people?

For his part, Elladan had already chosen. He had bound himself to a mortal who most likely would never openly admit that they were together – and he would spend eternity alone after their parting. Boromir still could not help but shake his head in disbelief. What made him in Elladan's eyes worth of such sacrifice was beyond his understanding. True, they had a good time together, even their souls touched upon occasion, but how could that be enough?

Quiet voices interrupted his tormented thoughts: one deep and smooth, the voice of a wise woman who had seen much in her life, the other harsh and rough, full of anger and unfulfilled passion.

He gazed out into the deepening gloom of the evening to see who disturbed his solitude and found Aragorn, still clad in the rich attire of his true heritage, and the Lady Undómiel, wearing a gown of pale lilac, feather-light and half-translucent as if made of mist, coloured by the sunset sky, her unbraided, raven-black hair floating weightlessly around her face like smoke.

They were walking arm-in-arm, she leaning slightly into him, but not in an intimate way; and though his eyes were burning with passion, on her calm, ageless face there was only fondness and something akin to cool pity. They kept their voices low, _and_ they were speaking in Sindarin, but Boromir was familiar enough with the tongue of the Grey-Elves to understand them.

It must have been a conversation they had started earlier, for Arwen sounded a little impatient, as if she had been repeating the same arguments over and over again and getting tired of it.

''Why do you fear the past?'' she asked. ''You are Isildur's Heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate.  Where he failed, you might succeed. Though where he succeeded, you might fail," she added thoughtfully. ''You are far removed from Isildur – and even further removed from Elros Tar-Minyatur, indeed. You are of Middle-earth, not of Númenórë, and in Middle-earth you are bound to fight your battles.''

''Still, the same blood flows in my veins," Aragorn said stubbornly; ''the same weakness, maybe, but also the same strength. We _are_ of the same blood, Undómiel. Why am I always asked to hold back? Am I not the Heir of the Kings of Númenor? You might be of the Elder Line of the Peredhil, but _I have_ descended from the Kings of Westernesse.''

''Your time shall come," Arwen soothed. ''You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it, if only your heart remains true to its destiny. The Shadow does not yet hold sway. Not over you, not over me. Do you remember the first time we met?''

''How could I ever forget it?'' Aragorn sighed. ''I thought I strayed into a dream.''

''And you got caught in that dream more than you ever should have," Arwen replied earnestly. ''Long years have passed since then. You did not have the cares you carry now. I hoped you had grown out of your  dreams. Do you remember what I told you, back then?''

Aragorn nodded eagerly, his eyes burning.

''You said you would bind yourself to me, and forsake the immortal life of your people.''

''Nay, Estel," Arwen shook her head, wise grey eyes full of pity for the tormented Man before her, ''I said I _would_ choose the way of mortal Men, just as my uncle Elros had chosen before, _if_ I should fall in love with a mortal. And to _that_ I still hold. I would rather share _one_ lifetime with someone I love than face all the Ages of the world alone. But I have _not_ chosen a mortal life just yet.''

''But your father said if I became the King of both Arnor _and_ Gondor, he would allow us to wed...," Aragorn trailed off.

''Father said I cannot give up the grace of my life for _less_," Arwen corrected gently. ''He left the choice to me, and I have _not_ chosen yet. 'Tis not a choice for me to make lightly. Nor have you become the King of anything, so far.''

There was heavy silence, for quite some time. Then Aragorn said, his voice full of despair:

''So you love me not...''

''Of course I love you, Estel, be not silly," Arwen replied with a sad smile. ''I am just not ready to make my Final Choice yet. Not before this quest is over. But," she added, taking off the necklace with the flower pendant she was wearing and putting it around Aragorn's neck, ''I can give you this token as a promise that I shall not choose any one else til then.''

''You cannot give me this!'' Aragorn protested. ''Not when you are still not willing to become my wife!''

Arwen raised an elegant eyebrow.

''It is mine to give whom I will, Estel. Like my heart. No one can force me to decide before I truly am ready. Not even you. This is all I can promise right now. Take it or refuse it – 'tis your choice.''

''How could I ever refuse aught you are willing to give me, no matter how little it is?'' Aragorn murmured, grabbing her into a tight embrace upon the highest point of the arched bridge and kissing her possessively before the eyes of the entire valley. Arwen let him for a moment – then she disentangled herself from his arms and left, without even looking back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''That was unexpected," Elladan commented quietly, sitting down on the grass at Boromir's side. ''We all were certain that she had made her Final Choice long ago.''

''Does it mean she loves Aragorn not?'' Boromir asked, somewhat confused, while his fingers found their way into the silky mass of unbraided hair laying heavily upon his Elf's back, gently massaging Elladan's sensitive scalp with his callused fingertips. Elladan arched into his touch like a big cat, almost purring in delight.

''Mmm, that feels good... I know not Arwen's true feelings, but if she still is unsure of her choice, after all these years, then she mayhap does _not_ love him... not enough to last for even _one_ lifetime.''

''Would _you_ choose the life of mortal Men, if it meant that we could stay together all our lives?'' Boromir asked, not understanding where _that_ question had come from and regretting it as soon as it was spoken.  But Elladan seemed not insulted.

''I have already bound myself to you," he answered, without opening his eyes. ''Do you believe I would leave you if I had the chance to remain with you?''

''That," said Boromir, ''is not a straight answer.''

''Yet 'tis the only one you get from me right now," Elladan replied. Then he rose and pulled Boromir to his feet as well. ''Come now. We shall not enjoy the softness of a real bed for a long time, and I want to ravish you thoroughly, ere we leave on the morrow.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No footnotes this time. You deserve a break, folks!


	6. Chapter 6: The Ring Goes South

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer: see Introduction

Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

Rating: PG, I guess.

**Author's notes:**

As earlier, the descriptions and a few lines of dialogue are taken from the HoMe-books ''The Return of the Shadow'' and ''The Treason of Isengard''. It turned out rather differently than what I originally had in my mind, but we all know that it's the characters who are really in control.g

My thanks to Deborah for suggesting the opening quote. I tried to turn it more ancient, the changes I made are probably horrible, but….shrugs

And once again, my heartfelt thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_''Wherever thou goest, I will go;_

_and where ever thou stayest, I shall stay._

_Thy people shall become as mine […]_

_And where ever thou diest,_

_I, too, shall die there and be buried with thee. […]_

_Death alone shall part me from thee.''_

(Loosely quoted after the Book of Ruth)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Four: The Ring Goes South

The next morning came, cold and grey, as was common in the middle of December in those days. The East Wind was streaming through the bare branches of the trees, and making the fir-trees in the hills seethe. The hurrying clouds were low and sunless. As the cheerless shadows of the early evening began to fall, the companions of the Ring were ready to depart. Their farewells had all been said by the fire in the great hall, and they were waiting only for Gandalf, who was still in the house, speaking some last words in private with Elrond.

Their spare food and other necessaries were laden on seven sure-footed ponies: two for the two hobbits, one for the Dwarf, and four for the others. Only Gildor had a big horse with him: his trusted pack animal that had accompanied him on many of his journeys and was able to walk on any path a hill pony could go.

The travelers themselves were to go on foot, for their course was set through lands where there were few roads and paths were rough and difficult. Sooner or later they would have to cross the Mountains. They had planned to depart early and quietly, under the cloak of the grey dawn, for Elrond had warned them to journey by dusk and dark as often as might be, and to lie híd when they could in the broad daylight.

''When the tidings reach Sauron,'' he said, ''of the discomfiture of the Nine Riders, he will be filled with great anger. When the hunt begins again, it will be far greater and more ravenous.''

''Are there still more Black Riders then?'' asked Frodo. Elrond shook his head solemnly.

''Nay! There are but Nine Ringwraiths. But when they come forth again, I fear they will bring a host of evil things in their train, even if Glorfindel is able to keep part of their forces occupied in Mirkwood. You must beware of even the sky above you as you go on your way.''

Heeding Elrond's advice, they were going to journey for the most part by dusk or dark. It meant little to the keen-eyed Elves, but Sam, who was standing by the pack-ponies, was sucking his teeth and staring moodily at the Great House – his desire for adventure was at low ebb. But in that hour none of the hobbits had any heart for their journey, regardless if it led them to the Black Land or back to their own – a chill was coming in their hearts and a cold wind in their faces, and their hopes waned.

A gleam of firelight came from the open doors; lights were glowing in many windows, and t he world outside seemed empty and cold. Bilbo, huddled in his cloak, stood silent on the doorstep beside Frodo, while Merry and Pippin stood forlornly a few steps away, with tears in their eyes.

Arwen and Elladan had already said their farewells to their father and stood together, clad in leggings, tunics and cloaks of shadowy grey, in the fashion of the Silvan folk of Lothlórien, armed with swords and bows, the full quivers strapped on their backs. Each of them had their long, raven-black hair woven into a single, tight braid, to keep it out of their   faces. Elrohir stood with them, paler than Death itself, unmistakable pain written in his features.

Boromir, wearing his black leather cloak above his mail shirt and his velvet tunic, stood a little way away, not waiting to disturb their last moments together. He wore the silver collar proudly and openly, to the wide-eyed astonishment of the Elves of the valley, but his tunic was held together just below the throat by the time-blackened silver clasp he had received as the token of their mutual promise from the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.

Gildor Inglorion stood by his horse, wearing the usual green and grey traveling garb of his Wandering Company, his golden hair bound into a thick club with thin leather straps, his great sword on his back, long throwing knives hanging from his belt. He, too, stood alone, having said his farewells to his own people in private. They were standing in patient silence among the trees to witness his parting.

Not far from him stood Gimli, the Dwarf – also alone, for his father had returned to Erebor shortly after the Council, and there were none of his kind left in the valley to see him off.  He wore openly a short shirt of steel-rings, for Dwarves make light of burdens; and in his belt was a broad-bladed axe, gifted him by Glóin, since he had broken his own in the foolish attempt to destroy the Ring.

Aragorn sat on the frosty ground, next to the door, with his head bowed to his knees. Boromir could guess what he was brooding about, having overheard his last conversation with Arwen, and from the compassionate looks the Lady Undómiel was giving his bent form she did, too. Nevertheless, she remained with her siblings, – after all, it was _Elrohir_ she was going to leave behind.

At last Elrond came out with Gandalf, his storm-grey eyes clouded with sorrow and dark foreboding. Strangely enough, his saddest look was given to Aragorn, not his own children who were about to leave.

''Farewell now,'' he said. ''May the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you. And may many white stars shine on your journey!'' He embraced his children one last time, then Aragorn, then – after a short hesitation – even Boromir, and, looking into the Man's eyes, added with a low voice: ''May the stars of the Lady Elbereth shine upon your faces and Manwë, Lord of the Winds watch over your paths.''

Aragorn stiffened visibly as his sharp ears caught these parting words, for that last phrase was, in fact, part of the fatherly blessing in the Elven wedding ceremony, invoked by the father calling Manwë as his witness that his blessing was truly given. It showed how completely Elrond had accepted the one-sided choice of his firstborn – even if he could not, would not ever agree with it.

''Good… good luck!'' said Bilbo, stuttering a little (from the cold perhaps), while Merry and Pippin clung to Frodo, sobbing openly. ''I suppose you will not be able to keep a diary, Frodo my lad, but I shall expect a full account when you get back. And do not be too long about it – I have lived longer than I expected already. Farewell!''

Frodo nodded wordlessly, embracing the old hobbit one last time; then he turned away, freeing himself from the arms of his young cousins, and joining the clearly frightened Sam.

Many others of Elrond's household stood in the shadows and watched them go, bidding them farewell with soft voices. Young Lindir remained in Arwen's arms for long, heartbreaking moments, though his beautiful face was calm and serene. Erestor hugged Elladan with an intimate ferocity that made Boromir wonder if they might have had something ere the seneschal married the young minstrel, exchanging soft words of grief and comfort in a voice so low that he could not hear what was said. Then Elladan took a deep breath, let go of his foster brother and stepped away from him with a somewhat forced smile.

There was no laughter, no songs or music. Silently at last they turned away, just as the Wandering Company faded back ever deeper among the trees, and leading their ponies, they vanished swiftly into the still, dark, grey dawn.

* * * * * * * * * * *

We crossed the bridge of Bruinen and wound slowly up the long, steep paths out of the cloven vale of Imladris and came at length to the high moors, grey and formless under misty stars.  There I halted for a moment to take a last look down at the lights of the Last Homely House – my home, where I had spent my whole life. For though I often rode out with my brother on errantry, or to hunt down more of the cursed Orcs, I knew this journey would be different from the adventures I had before.

This time, the fate of Middle-earth itself was at risk.

And the life of the one to whom I had given my heart, freely and utterly.

My beloved let the others overtake us and came to my side, watching my face warily.

''Do you regret your choice?'' he asked, his voice low and full of sorrow. '''Tis not too late yet for you to turn back. You know I cannot promise you anything.''

I smiled and shook my head. How could he believe that I would leave him, no matter what happened? Being allowed to go with him was more than I could hope for.

''Nay, I regret nothing,'' I replied. ''I would make the same choice over and over again. 'Tis just – even if I am to return to my father's house some day, it will never be the same again.''

''Because of me,'' he added bitterly, and I had to nod, for that was the truth – more than he could ever guess.

''In a sense, aye. But changes would have come even without you; for regardless of how hard the Elves try to keep the face of Arda the same, in the end they cannot keep the changes from coming. And for my part, I am grateful that one of these changes brought you into my life.''

''Not many of your people share your feelings, I fear,'' he said, his eyes darkening with that deep sadness I saw much too often in them; and I had to agree once again.

''Nay, they do not. But 'tis my life and my choice to make, and no one can choose without losing some of their possible choices and settling for other ones. Worry not about me, _meleth-nîn_, for my choice gladdens my heart and gives my life a purpose I knew not before.''

This was not the first time I called him my beloved, yet never before openly; and I regretted doing so at once, for it clearly made him uncomfortable.

''We have to go,'' he said evasively, ''or else we shall fall behind too much.''

After the Ford we left the West Road that crossed Bruinen; and turning left we went on by narrow paths among the folded lands – then South. Our purpose was to hold this course for many miles and days on the western side of the Hithaeglir. The country was much wilder and rougher than in the green valley of Anduin in Wilderland on the eastern side of the Mountain, where Elrohir and I usually travelled when on our way to Lothlórien, and our going now would be much slower, the more so because we had to walk with hobbits and Men; but we hoped in this way to escape the notice of enemies. The spies of Sauron had hitherto seldom been seen in the western regions; and the paths were little known except to Gildor and myself.

Mithrandir walked in front, and with him went Gildor, who knew this country even in the dark, having been on the road for the better part of this Age. Arwen and Estel followed them in less than companionable silence; then came the hobbits, and Gimli the Dwarf alone. Boromir and I walked as rearguard, so that we had keen Elven eyes in front, in the middle and in the rear.  No enemy could take us by surprise.

The first part of our journey was cheerless and grim, and I could see how the hobbits suffered from the cold wind. Indeed, it blew icily from the eastern mountains for many sunless days and no garment seemed able to keep out its searching fingers. Father had furnished us with warm clothes, of course:  with jackets and cloaks lined with fur as well as many blankets, but we seldom felt warm, either moving or at rest.

As Elves, we suffered less from the weather, so whenever we found a sleeping place during the middle of the day – in some hollow of the land, or hidden under the tangled thorn-bushes that grew in great thickets in these parts – we tried to share our body heat with our freezing companions.

With his customary Dwarven stubbornness, Gimli refused of course to ''lie with an Elf'' (as he put it); but the hobbits were more than happy to cuddle with Gildor, whom they already knew from their long and perilous journey from the Shire to Imladris. Estel and Arwen, too, shared their blankets, and I was eager myself to keep my proud, brick-headed and yet oh-so-tender-hearted Gondorian Prince warm. We had to restrain ourselves, of course, for this was not the time to dally, but it still felt good to hold him in my arms and sing to him, audible only to the two of us, when the nightmares came.

For they came back to him with a violence that none of us had expected, filling his dreams with images of decay and a fiery death, for him as well as for his beloved city, so that he was often shaking in my arms, caught in some unknown horror, and it was not easy to wake him. I began to understand that it was the Ring itself reaching out to him, who had already been touched by the Shadow, and that I would have a long and hard battle to fight against its power, if I wanted to keep my beloved from falling.

I could only hope that my love would be strong enough and pure enough to protect him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It seemed to Boromir that they were creeping like snails and getting nowhere; for each day the land looked much as it had done the day before. Yet all the while the Misty Mountains, which south of Imladris bent westward, were drawing nearer. More and more often they found no paths and had to make wide turns to avoid either steep places or thickets or sullen, treacherous swamps. The land was tumbled in barren hills and deep valleys, filled with turbulent waters(1).

Yet Gildor always found his way around all those hindrances, with the uncanny instinct that the wandering Elves seemed to share with the birds who fly South in the winter season. His skill could not be matched even by the Rangers of the North, to Aragorn's dismay. For the Ranger seemed less than happy now that he had to follow Gildor's lead, while Gildor – though haughty towards the Men, the Dwarf, and even to the other Elves – seemed to get along with the hobbits perfectly well.

On the rare occasions when they dared to light a fire, he often sat with Frodo and Sam at the dying embers afterwards, talking with them about the Shire, the paths and roads of which he knew like the back of his hand, and the hobbits hesitated not to pour out their hearts to him.

''_That_ I can understand'', said Gildor on the sixth day of their journey, speaking with Frodo about the divided mind of the latter about leaving the Shire. ''Half your heart wished to go, but the other half held you back; for its home was in the Shire, and its delight in bed and board and the voices of friends, and in the changing of gentle seasons among the fields and trees. And since you are a hobbit, that half is the stronger, as it was even in Bilbo.  What has made it surrender?''

''True; I am an ordinary hobbit, and so I always shall be, I deem,'' answered Frodo slowly and thoughtfully. ''But alas! A most un-hobbit-like fate has been laid upon me.''

''Then you are _not_ an ordinary hobbit,'' replied Gildor, and a fond smile softened remarkably the steely hardness of his fair face, ''for otherwise that could not be so. But the half of you that is plain hobbit will suffer much, I fear, from being forced to follow the other half which is worthy of the strange fate, until it, too, becomes worthy – and yet remains hobbit.''

''So I shall change and become a stranger to myself?'' Frodo murmured, clearly unhappy about that possibility.

''Nay, not a stranger,'' said Gildor, ''though that change might be the very purpose of your fate – or the purpose of that part of your fate which concerns you yourself. The hobbit half that loves the Shire is not to be despised but it has to be taught, and to rediscover the changing seasons and voices of friends when they have been lost.(2)''

''You speak in riddles again,'' Frodo complained glumly. Gildor nodded.

''I do. For though foresight might come to the Wise at times of great need, its messages are never easy to unravel, and even if they were, I would not wish to concern you with things that might or might not come true. Rest now, little Elf-friend. You need to save your strength; for the road shall not grow any easier for many days yet.''

With that he rose and went to take over the watch from Boromir, who was greatly relieved to be able to return to his bedroll – and to the safety and warmth of Elladan's arms.

''That was a most intriguing conversation,'' he mentioned in a low voice.

''Mmhm,'' Elladan agreed sleepily. ''Gildor can be infuriating at times, but he is wise nonetheless. The Wandering Companies see more of Arda than any other Elves, and he has been on the road for some four thousand years at the very least.''

''I thought he was the Lord of Edhellond…?''

''He is. Sometimes he even stays there for years. But mostly he lives on the road. In the First Age, there were whole tribes, mostly of the Green-Elves, who had no permanent dwellings. But alas, those times are over. Only small groups like Gildor's company keep their old ways and spend their lives traveling all over Middle-earth.''

''You regret this?'' Boromir asked in surprise. Elladan nodded.

''We all do. The Wandering Companies once connected all Elven realms and settlements, brought tidings and new songs, kept the trade among the different tribes alive. With their vanishing, a whole intricate network of contacts all over the western lands was lost, and we became estranged, not only from Men but from each other as well. Thus the handful of wandering Elves that still walk the endless paths of Middle-earth are very precious to us – and I am grateful that Gildor asked to come with us. _If_ there is a way to reach our goal, he will find it. And for that, I gladly overlook his manners,'' he added with a grin.

Boromir smiled thoughtfully, drawing a calloused fingertip along the elegantly-sculpted cheekbone of his Elf in a gentle caress. Elladan gave him a curious look.

''What ails you? 'Tis not your custom to show your affection so openly.''

''True,'' the Man admitted, ''but no one can see us right now. I…I just wish we could have some more privacy.''

''So do I,'' sighed Elladan, ''but I fear that is not likely to happen ere we reach the realm of my grandparents.''

''How far is it?'' Boromir asked hopefully, but Elladan only shook his head.

''Too far. Let us rest now, as well as we can. We have a long way to go ere we can sleep undisturbed and without fear again.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He was right, of course, and so we cuddled close and slept as had become our way since we left Imladris. And even though I somewhat missed our more intimate encounters, it was wonderful to feel the warmth of his body, spooned up against my back; the safe circle of his arms around me; the soft caress of his warm breath on my neck. To hear that low, lyrical humming that always signaled that he was about to fall asleep. Elves could  remind one remarkably of cats at times.

Finally, his voice trailed off and his breathing became slower and deeper, and I knew that he was asleep. Unlike him, I lay awake for what seemed hours to me, pondering over this unexpected turn of events. What we had had at Imladris was supposed to be a short, if torrid affair, a way to ease the need and loneliness in both of our hearts. Something we had both expected to end once I left Imladris to return home.

But then my Elf fell in love with me, I still cannot understand how or why, for I certainly did little else during that time but hurt and insult him in my pain and confusion, and ere I knew what was happening, he not only swore a one-sided oath that bound him to me for eternity, but was also allowed to come with us on this insane quest.

He asked to come, for he wanted to protect me – not from the weapons of the Enemy, for I needed no protection from _that_ and he knew it (I am a seasoned warrior, after all) – but from the Shadow that befell my heart under that ruined bridge in Osgiliath. I know he fears that my longing for the Ring's power could overwhelm me. He knows not the Men of Gondor. He knows not we would never turn against those we have promised to protect.

Or would we? Even though I only want the Ring to protect my people, would I possibly try to overwhelm the Halfling and take the Ring by force, if not for the warm restraints of my lover's embrace? I know not. I hope, by the Valar, I _hope_ I would be strong enough and wise enough to see what _has_ to be done and to conduct myself accordingly.

Still, I am so grateful for his presence. For I am but a Man, a mere soldier, whose strength had been sorely tested in the recent years – mayhap once too many times. And he asks naught of me. He simply takes me for what I am, for _who_ I am, without demanding that I  fulfill any expectations. With him, I need not  prove _anything_. With him, I truly can rest.

I need not turn in his arms to see his face before me, noble and fair and clouded with hidden sorrows, many of which have been caused by me, his clear grey eyes unfocused but open, as Elves always sleep at times of great peril and readiness. I wish I could give him what he truly needs – what he deserves, just as he has given up his family and his home for me. I wish I could love him the way he loves me. But alas! None of us can command our own hearts, and there is no way on Earth to force us to feel what we do not.

And even if my heart were to change, I could not be with him forever. Not only because of the laws and customs of my land –  there is no chance my father would accept me having a male consort, Elf or not – but because I am promised already. I cannot even lay the blame upon Father, for it was I who made that promise to the Lady Éowyn, of my own free will, ere the Steward of Gondor could make his choice. And unless the White Lady of Rohan releases me voluntarily, I am bound to my given word.

I do not even know if I _want_ to be released from my obligations. Duty has always come first and foremost for me, just as it has come for Father and for the whole of our family. And though I am not as ashamed of having a male lover as I might have been half a year ago,  I cannot abandon the sacred duty of Mardil's Heirs for my own pleasure.

Nor does my fair and generous Elf ask me to do so. 'Tis still beyond my understanding, but he is ready to take what little I can give him – which is truly _very_ little on this journey, being denied even the comfort of flesh we shared before – without asking for more. I know I cannot change the way things are between us… and yet, I begin to wish they were different.

''You should be sleeping…,'' blast, my thoughts must have awakened him; I keep forgetting how that Stone connects us in way that I have never been connected to anyone before. ''You brood too much, _meleth-nîn_,'' he adds, and I can feel him smiling against my back. '''Tis how it is, and no amount of anguish can change it. You give me what you can, and that is enough for me. Now, go to sleep, for until you do I cannot, either, and I  would truly like to.''

No matter how much I tried, I could not remember afterwards what he did to me next. I felt his warm hand gently touching my chilled forehead – then everything went dark at once, and I did not wake til it was time for us to set off again.

''I told you that I was taught to become a healer,'' he said with a shrug when I asked him about it, and that was all the answer I could ever get out of him on the matter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Quoted loosely after ''The Return of the Shadow'' (HoME 6), p. 418.

(2) Quoted loosely after ''The Return of the Shadow'' (HoME 6), p. 281. Originally, this would have been part of Frodo and Gildor's conversation above Woodhall. Unfortunately, Tolkien later rejected it – and I picked it up as an excellent proof of Gildor's wisdom.

The Bible quote in original:

Wherever you go, I shall go

Where you dwell, I shall dwell

Your people shall be my people

And your God my God.

Where you die, I shall die

And there I shall be buried.

(Ruth 1:16-17)


	7. Chapter 7: The Realm of the Hollytrees

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad **

**Disclaimer:** see Introduction

**Warning:** this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

**Rating:** PG-13, for implied m/m relationship

**Author's notes:**

Now we are slowly coming to the really important changes. Events will take a wholly different turn from now on. As earlier, the descriptions and a few lines of dialogue are taken from the HoMe-books ''The Return of the Shadow'' and ''The Treason of Isengard''. This is especially true about the names of the places our heroes visit – I decided to use the old ones, in order to create a different atmosphere – so beware of the footnotes!

As always, many heartfelt thanks go to Isabeau for beta-reading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''I went down to the nut orchard,  
to look at the blossoms of the valley,  
to see whether the wines had budded,  
whether the pomegranates were in bloom.'' 

(The Song of Solomon, 6:11)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CHAPTER FIVE: THE REALM OF THE HOLLY-TREES

When they had been about ten days on the road, the weather grew better.  The wind suddenly veered southward.  The swift flowing clouds lifted and melted away, and the sun came out.

They came at dawn to the end of a long, stumbling night march, reaching a low ridge crowned with ancient holly trees, whose pale fluted trunks seemed to have been formed out of the very stone of the hills.  Their berries shone red in the light of the rising sun.  Far away south the dim shapes of mountains could be seen, that seemed now to lie across their path.  To the left of this distant range a tall peak stood up like a tooth: it was tipped with snow but its bare western shoulder glowed redly in the glowing light.

Gildor came to a halt, followed by his small friends.  He looked at the land lying before them, and in his otherwise so cold eyes there was a deep sorrow, as if he were looking at the events of a past long gone – events that still burned in his heart with an old pain that could not be healed.  Boromir wondered what memories the Elf-Lord might have of this place, but when he turned to Elladan to ask, his Elf only gave him a slight shook of his head, and mouthed soundlessly, ''Later''.

Gandalf stepped up to Gildor and nodded in satisfaction.

''We have done well,'' the wizard said.  ''We have reached the borders of the country called Hollin – or _Nan-eregdos_(1) in the Elf-speech.  Many Elves lived here once in happier times.  Fifty leagues as the crow flies have we come, if we have come a mile, and we have marched quicker than winter from the North.''

''The land and the weather will be milder now,'' Gildor added softly, ''though mayhap all the more dangerous.''

''Danger or not, a real sunrise is mighty welcome,'' said Frodo, throwing back his hood and letting the morning light play on his face.

He looked pale and weary, like a child that had to carry a grown man's burden, and yet, his eyes were not the least child-like.  Boromir had to remind himself that – despite his fragile looks – the Halfling was a grown member of his peculiar race and actually more than ten years his elder. In fact, _every one_ in the company was older than him, save the Ring-bearer's faithful manservant. The thought was somewhat… unsettling.

''Mountains ahead,'' said Samwise, as if he had known that Boromir's thoughts circled around him, eyeing their way full of doubt and mistrust. ''We seem to have turned eastward.''

Gildor shaded his eyes with a slender hand, looked in the same direction and laughed.

''Nay, we have not,'' he soothed the agitated hobbit with more patience than anyone would have expected from him. '''Tis the Mountains that have turned. Do you not remember Elrond's map in Imladris?''

''We-ell, I did not look carefully at it, if you know what I mean, sir,'' Sam admitted, blushing ashamedly. ''Master Frodo has a better head for those sorts of things.''

''That is your loss,'' Gildor shrugged, but smiled at the hobbit nevertheless; ''for had you looked at the map, you would know that away there stands _Taragaer_(2) or Ruddyhorn – that mountain with the red side.''

''I need no map,'' Gimli the Dwarf came up to them and was now gazing out before him, his deep eyes burning with a dark fire. ''There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and every Dwarf remembers the shape of its mountains. Tall and proud they stand in our dreams:  _Baraz, Zirik, Shinbar_ (3).''

''Dwarves are not the only ones who remember,'' Gildor answered quietly. ''Many times did my feet walk these paths in the days of my youth. They are etched into my memories of an Age where our people were less estranged and our gates open for each other. Have you ever been to these lands, child of Durin?''

''Alas, nay,'' Gimli shook his head regretfully. ''Only once before did I see them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dúm, the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit – Moria in the Elvish tongue.''

''So it is,'' Gildor agreed, ''though in the days of its glory it was not black but great and wondrous and fabulously rich… when Durin the Deathless sat on its throne and Narvi's hands carved the stone of it to never-ending wonders.''

Gimli shot him a surprised and even a little suspicious look.

''How is it that an Elf speaks so highly of the dark depths of the Dwarrowdelf?,'' he asked. Gildor shrugged.

''I visited Khazad-dúm a few times in my youth. I saw its greatness and beauty, and it pains me that they are now gone. Besides, both my father and my grandfather were stone-carvers and though I did not inherit their skills, I was taught to see the beauty in things made by hard work and magic.''

He paused and stretched out a long arm, pointing out the three great peaks for the rest of their company, one after another.

''Yonder stands Barazinbar, as the Dwarves call it, the Ruddyhorn, or cruel Taragaer; then _Zirakzinbar_(4), the Silvertine, _Celebras_(5) in our tongue; and finally, the farthest away, _Udushinbar_(6), the Coudyhead.''

''There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lie the land of _Caron-dún_, the Red Valley,'' Gimli added. ''When we climb the Red Pass of _Cris-caron_, under Taragaer's side, we come straight into Caron-dún that is also called the Dimrill Dale, or in the Dwarven tongue _Uruktharbun_(7).''

''And it is for Dimrill Dale that we are making,'' said Gandalf, ''the deep dale of the Dwarves that the Elves call _Nanduhiriat_(8). There the River Redway(9) rises in the black waters of the Mirrormere.''

''Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram,'' murmured Gimli, ''and mirrors only the far sky and three white peaks; and cold is the water of _Buzundus_(10). My heart trembles at the thought that I might see them, soon.''

''I hope your heart finds its pleasure in them, my good Dwarf,'' Gandalf said gravely, ''but we cannot tarry there long.  We  have to follow the River Redway – to the Great River, and…'' he trailed off.

''Aye, and what then?,'' Boromir asked quietly, speaking for the first time since they stopped.

''To the end of the journey – in the end,'' said Gandalf, and Boromir scowled, for the shadowy answers of the wizard raised his mistrust again.

''We will not look too far ahead,'' the Lady Arwen added. ''Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over. What are your plans for today, Mithrandir?''

''I think we shall rest here for a whole day. There is a wholesome air about Hollin. Much evil must befall any country ere it wholly forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there.''

''That is true,'' said Gildor grimly. ''But the Elves of this land were a strange people, very different from the woodland folk that dwells merrily under trees. They belonged to the Noldor, the Elven-wise, who delighted in creating things of great power and beauty. Even now, thousands of years later, all the stones about cry to me with many voices: _They built high towers to heaven, and delved deep to earth… and they are gone_. They are gone.''

''Did they seek the Havens long ago?'' Samwise asked in a small, almost frightened voice, for the grief of the Elf-Lord could nearly be touched by hand.

''Nay,'' Gildor answered slowly, ''they did not. They were trapped in their high towers, among their strong walls that yet could not resist the endless hosts of the Dark One when he came to take the city. All those Elves that remained here to protect their work and their homes were slain. There were but a handful of survivors. After that, the woods took back the place again, so that even the ruins are covered and only can be found when one knows where to look.''

''Yet it seems that you know where to look, do you?'' Samwise continued his inquiry.

''Yea, I do,'' answered Gildor, a dark shadow of painful memories clouding his hard, beautiful face. ''For in my youth often did I visit the fair city of Celebrimbor, Lord of the Jewel-smiths, as he was an old friend of my parents – and mine, too.  And I saw that same city in smouldering ruins and her Lord slain in the most cruel way.''

''_Her_ Lord,'' Sam repeated, a little surprised. Gildor gave him a fond smile; the two hobbits had begun to grow on him.

'''Tis an ancient custom among Elf-Lords to speak of their cities as if they were fair ladies,'' he explained. ''Some say that the Lord of an Elven city is as much espoused to his realm as he is to his own wife. Some us have never known any other spouse,'' he added with a sigh, casting a meaningful look at Arwen.

''Would you tell us about this city and her Lord?'' Frodo asked quietly. ''I know that Celebrimbor was the one who made the Three, but there is little else known about him.''

''Among Halflings and Men mayhap there is not,'' said Gildor grimly. ''But his name is renowned among our kin. For he was the only grandson of Fëanor the Great – from his fifth son, Curufin, who inherited most of Fëanor's skills. Yet Celebrimbor's skills exceeded his father's by far, which is why he was called the 'Silver Fist'.''

''Was he born in the Blessed Realm?'' Sam asked, his eyes wide with awe, and Boromir  became interested, too, for though Celebrimbor's name was not unknown for the lore-masters of his home, little of the Elf-Lord's deeds and history were mentioned in the old scrolls and tomes kept in the Hidden Archives of Minas Tirith.

''He was,'' Gildor nodded, warming up to the topic. ''He was brought back to Middle-earth by his father as a young elfling, and lived in Nargothrond for a long time, helping Finrod Felagund to build his city. Later he became estranged from his father (which is a long and sorrowful tale – one I shall tell you another time) and remained in Nargothrond when Curufin and his brother were driven forth. After the War of Wrath, when Morgoth, the Great Enemy was overthrown, he lived in Gil-galad's court and helped my father to design and build the castle of the High King ere he went to build his own realm in Eregion.''

''Gildor forgot to mention that Finrod Felagund, the King of Nargothrond, was his grandfather,'' Arwen added with a smile. ''Though I know not when modesty became one of his virtues.''

Both Boromir and Gimli stared at the Elf-Lord with newly-found respect (for Nargothrond and his Dwarf-friend Elvenking had a great place among Dwarven legends), but Gildor only shrugged.

''The days of our glory are long gone, and I am but the last twig of a once-great House, now fallen from grace,'' he said.

'''Tis not entirely true,'' said Gandalf. ''For is your great-grandfather not still the High King of the Noldor in the Blessed Realm?''

''So I have been told,'' Gildor replied. ''Yet my true place would have been here, in Middle-earth, for here I was born and here have I lived all my life. And though I shall leave for the West one day as all of us have to, this will always remain my home, however small it has become since passing of our days of greatness.''

''You wanted to become King very much, did you?'' Boromir asked quietly, for the longing on Gildor's face was unmistakable.

''I am not the only one,'' Gildor replied, shooting a pointed look towards Aragorn. ''Only there is no realm left for me to take over from those who had ruled it for hundreds of years in the name of my forefathers – nor an Elven Princess promised to me, should I succeed. But you were asking about Celebrimbor,' and he changed the topic with one smooth move, turning back to the hobbits as if the fuming Ranger did not exist. ''Sit with me at the fireside, and I shall tell you his tale and that of the rise and fall of his fair city.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That morning they lit a fire in a deep hollow shrouded by the great holly trees, and their supper was merrier than it had been since they left the house of Elrond. They did not hurry to bed afterwards, for they had all the night to sleep in and did not mean to go on until the evening of next day. Only Aragorn was moody and restless. After a while he left the company and wandered about on the ridge, looking out on the lands south and west. He came back and stood looking at them.

''What is the matter?'' asked Gildor with his arrogant smile. ''Do you miss the east wind?''

''No indeed,'' answered Aragorn, biting back an angry retort. ''But I miss something. I know Hollin fairly well, and have been here in many seasons.''

''Not more frequently than I have, I deem,'' Gildor countered, his eyes glittering with something Boromir could not truly recognise – was it mischief or true arrogance?

''True,'' Aragorn reluctantly admitted. ''Yet my visits in this land have been somewhat more recent than yours, I believe. No people dwell here now, but many other things live here, or used to – especially birds. But now it is very silent. I can feel it. There is no sound for miles round, and your voices seem to make the ground echo.  I cannot make it out.''

Gandalf looked up quickly. ''But what do you think the reason is?'' he asked. ''Is there more in it than surprise at seeing a whole party of hobbits and Elves (not to mention Boromir and me) where people are so seldom seen?''

''I hope that it is,'' said Aragorn. ''But I get a feeling of watchfulness and of fear that I have never had here before.''

''Very well! Let us be more careful,'' said Gandalf. ''If you bring a Ranger with you, it is best to pay attention to him – especially if the Ranger is Aragorn, as I have found before. There are some things that even an experienced wizard does not notice. We had better stop talking now, and rest quietly and set a look-out.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Boromir's turn to take the first watch, but Elladan joined him. They sat down a little apart from the fire, leaning their backs against each other for better leverage. This way they needed not to raise their voices, even though it was a little awkward to talk without seeing each other's face. The others soon fell asleep, one by one.

''Would you care to tell me what that was between Gildor and Aragorn?'' Boromir asked, when the camp became quiet and only the heavy breathing of their sleeping companions and the crackling of the small fire broke it.

'''Tis a very old tale,'' his Elf replied, shifting positions to lean more fully against him.  ''Gildor and Arwen were lovers for quite a few years, but that was long ago.  Centuries, in fact. Still, Gildor is not used to taking 'no' for an answer, and sometimes it seems that he keeps hoping that Arwen will return to him. I believe he hoped to found his own dynasty, reuniting the Houses of our forefathers, Fingolfin and Finarfin, again.''

''I thought he might have had something with the Lord Celebrimbor,'' said Boromir thoughtfully. ''His demeanour is always so... odd when he speaks of the Lord of Eregion.''

''The only ones who could tell you aught about that would be Father or Glorfindel,'' Elladan replied. ''Yet I very much doubt that they would do so. Elrohir and I always suspected that this had something to do with the almost-hostility Father and Gildor treat each other with at times. But there could be other reasons, too. Gildor is not one to figure out easily.''

''Is the Lady Arwen the reason for Gildor's dismay towards Aragorn?'' Boromir asked. ''Or is it more the fact that Aragorn might yet become a king while he has no chance left himself?''

''Both, I believe,'' Elladan answered with a shrug; then he gave his lover a thorough look. ''Does this mean that you  would consider stepping down in favour of Estel?''

''Not ere he proves his worthiness,'' Boromir slowly said. ''No matter what I might think of him personally, 'tis the good of Gondor I have to think of. I wish not to begin another Kinstrife and tear our land apart by my own deeds. Should he prove worthy of his forefathers' throne, I shall not deprive Gondor from its lawful King.''

''Your father might be less easy to persuade,'' Elladan remarked, yawning. ''If what you have already told me about him is any indication.''

''He is a Man of strong opinions,'' Boromir admitted gloomily. ''And I fear of what he might do, should he find out about us. I have the feeling that he already has arranged a proposition to the royal House of Edoras, and would not take it kindly should I refuse to follow his wishes.''

''I respect your given word to the Lady Éowyn,'' Elladan said. ''We have discussed this before. I know that your House needs heirs that I cannot give you. I shall release you freely when the time comes, you know that.''

''I know,'' Boromir sighed. ''Yet I wish it were the Lady Éowyn who would release me from my promise. For I would prefer to share my bed – to share my life – with you, if it were possible.''

''Even if your father would tolerate me in his court, the people of Gondor would never accept such bond,'' Elladan replied sadly. ''If you lived in the North, where the remaining people of the North-kingdom are more used to Elven customs, we might have a chance… were you truly willing to bond with me. For I know that you feel not the same way for me as I feel for you.''

Boromir looked at him with a slight bewilderment. True, he was not devoted to his Elf to the same extent that Elladan was devoted to him, for his heart was still divided between different kinds of love, but still…

''Are we not bound already?'' he asked. ''The ceremony ere we left Imladris…''

''…was to bond me to you, as I have explained several times,'' Elladan finished for him, wondering why Men had such a hard time understanding the true meaning of Elven customs. ''You, however, remain free in your choices – as free as your father and the customs of your people allow you.''

''But does such a bond not last 'til the end of your life?'' Boromir asked.

''It does,'' his Elf nodded. ''As it was said on our ceremony: 'til the end of Arda and mayhap beyond it.''

''Then why did you enter it?'' Boromir asked, still only beginning to understand the ramifications of such a bond. ''Why sentence yourself to endless solitude? The life of Men is but a wink of an eye for you – when I am gone, you shall be alone for eternity.''

''Nay, not for eternity,'' Elladan said with a smile. ''But for a short while, as Elves measure time. For I have made my Final Choice, as 'tis the right of all the children of Elrond, and just as his brother, I chose to become a mortal Man when he leaves. I might outlive you by many years – unless I lay down my life willingly – but at the end I shall die like you or any other Man.''

For quite some time Boromir was unable to utter as much as a single word. What Elladan had just revealed shook him to the bone.

''Why?'' he finally asked. ''Why sacrifice unending life and the joys of the Blessed Realm for me? I am not worth it – nor can I promise you aught but a few stolen hours, hiding from peering eyes.''

''You understand not,'' Elladan smiled, though his smile was tainted with sorrow. ''For three thousand years have I waited for you – now that you have come into my life, however briefly, 'tis no sacrifice at all to choose a life that is akin yours, in the hope that once we might be reunited beyond the Rim. I might have made the same choice without you – but now that I have found you, I also found a reason for that choice. I only wish for Arwen to be as sure in her choice as I am in mine.''

''Are you in doubt that she has a good enough reason to choose?'' Boromir asked, remembering the scene between Arwen and Aragorn they had both witnessed back in Imladris, during the Council.  Elladan sighed.

''I know not. Yet I cannot help noticing that she seems less than devoted to Estel. She seems more devoted to our quest than to the Man she is supposedly going to wed.''

''She made no promise so far – did she?'' Boromir asked. Elladan shook his head thoughtfully.

''Nay… and I fear that her indecision could drive Estel to despair. Even though at times I know not who it is he loves – my sister or the Princess of Imladris.''

''Is there a difference?'' Boromir wondered.

''For one who wants to become the King of both Arnor and Gondor, yea, there is,'' Elladan answered grimly. Boromir frowned.

''I thought he only wanted to become King so that he might be allowed to wed the Lady Arwen,'' he said.

''So did I, for a long time,'' Elladan agreed. ''But the longer I watch them on this quest, the less sure I am about it. I cannot tell you why. But my heart is heavy with concern, and not alone for the burden that the little Halfling has been chosen to bear.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To that Boromir could say naught, and so they sat there quietly as time passed by, watching the weary sleep of their comrades. The silence grew till even Boromir felt it, though his senses were less keen than those of his lover. The breathing of the sleepers could be plainly heard. The swish of a pony's tail and the occasional movements of his feet became loud noises. Boromir seemed to hear his very joints creaking if he stirred or moved. Over all hung a blue sky as the sun rode high and clear. The last clouds melted. But away in the south-east a dark patch grew and divided, flying like smoke to the north and west.

''What is that?'' he said in a whisper to Elladan. His Elf made no answer, for he was gazing intently at the sky, but before long Boromir could see what it was for himself. The clouds were flocks of Birds going at great speed – wheeling and circling and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something.

''Lie flat and still'', hissed Elladan, drawing Boromir down into the shade of a holly-bush – for a whole regiment of birds had separated from the western flock and came back flying low right over the ridge where the travellers lay. Boromir thought they were some kind of crow of a large size. As they passed overhead one harsh croak was heard.

Not till they had dwindled in the distance would Elladan move. Then he went and wakened Gandalf and Aragorn.

''Regiments of black crows are flying to and fro over Hollin'', he said. ''They are not natives to this place. I do not know what they are after – possibly there is some trouble going on away south: but I think they are spying out the land. I think too that I have seen hawks flying higher in the sky. That would account for the silence(11). We ought to move again this evening. I am afraid that Hollin is no longer wholesome for us: it is being watched.''

''And in that case so is the Red Pass, and how we can get over it without being seen I do not know,'' said Gandalf. ''But we will think about that when we get nearer. About moving on from here tonight: I am afraid you are right.''

''It is just as well that we let our fire make little smoke,'' added Boromir. ''It was out again (I think) before the birds came over. It must not be lit again.''

''Well, if that is not disappointing!'' said Samwise. The news had been broken to him as soon as he woke (in the late afternoon): no fire, and a move again by night. ''I had looked forward to a real good meal tonight, something hot. And all because of a pack of crows!''

''Well, you can go on looking forward,'' said Gandalf. ''There may be many unexpected feasts ahead of you! Personally I should like a pipe of tobacco in comfort, and warmer feet.  However, we are certain of one thing, at any rate: it will get warmer as we go south.''

''Too warm, I shouldn't wonder!'' said Sam to Frodo. ''Not but what I would be glad to see that Fiery Mountain, and see the road's end, so to speak. I thought that this Ruddyhorn or whatever its name is might be it, till Mr. Gandalf said not.'' Maps conveyed nothing to Sam, and all distances in these strange lands seemed so vast that he was quite out of his reckoning.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The travellers remained hidden all that day. The birds passed over every now and again; but as the westering sun grew red they vanished southwards(12). Soon afterwards the party set out again; and turned now a little eastward making for the peak of Taragaer, which still glowed dully red in distance. Frodo thought of Elrond's warning to watch even the sky above, but the sky was now clear and empty overhead, and one by one white stars sprang forth as the last gleams of sunset faded.

Guided by Gildor and Gandalf as usual they struck a good path. It looked to Frodo, as far as he could guess in the gathering dark, like the remains of an ancient road that had once run broad and well-planned from now deserted Hollin to the pass beneath Taragaer. A crescent Moon rose over the mountains, and cast a pale light which was helpful – but was not welcomed by Aragorn or Gandalf and Gildor, possessing keen Elven eyesight, needed it not). It stayed but a little while and left them to the stars(13).

At midnight they had been going on again for an hour or more from their first halt. Frodo kept looking up at the sky, partly because of its beauty, partly because of Elrond's words. Suddenly he saw or felt a shadow pass over the stars – as if they faded and flashed out again.  He shivered.

''Did you see aught?'' he said to Gandalf, who was just in front.

''No, but I felt it, whatever it was'', said the wizard. ''It might be nothing, just a wisp of thin cloud.'' It did not sound as if he thought much of his own explanation(14).

Nothing more happened that night. The next morning was even brighter than before, but the wind was turning back eastward and the air was chill. For three more nights they marched on, climbing steadily and ever more slowly as their road wound into the hills and the mountains drew nearer and nearer. On the third morning Taragaer towered up before them, a mighty peak tipped with snow like silver, but with sheer naked sides dull red as if stained with blood.

There was a black look in the air and the sun was wan. The wind was now gone towards the North.

Gandalf sniffed and looked back. ''Winter is behind,'' he said quietly to Strider. ''The peaks behind are whiter than they were.''

''And tonight'', said Gildor, ''we shall be high up on our way to the red pass of Cris-caron.  What do you think of our course now? If we are not seen in that narrow place – and waylaid by some evil, as would be easy there – the weather may prove as bad an enemy.''

''I think no good of any part of our course, as you know well, Master Elf,'' snapped Gandalf. ''Still we have to go on.  It is no good whatsoever our trying to cross further south into the land of Rohan. The Horse-kings may not be in the service of Sauron, but there still is Saruman to consider(15).''

''Now, I know that,'' Gildor looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes but reconsidered at the last moment. ''But there is a way – not over Cris-caron, as you are well aware.''

''Of course I am. But I am not going to risk that, until I am quite sure there is no other way.  I shall think things out while the others rest and sleep(16).''

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) This is the first occurrence of Hollin; but the Elvish name Eregion does not appear. In the Etymologies the Elvish name of Hollin is Regornion. In FOTR Gandalf says that they have come 45 leagues, but that was as the crow flies: ''many long miles further our feet have walked.

(2) Caradhras, originally. The ''red horn mountain'' had  seven (!) different names ere the Great Maker settled for Caradhras.

(3) In LOTR: Baraz, Zirak, Shathúr.

(4) Zirak-zigil.

(5) Celebdil. 

(6) Bundushathúr.

(7) Azanulbizar. The whole geography is rather messed up here, but I swear I went straight after the HoME-books, so Tolkien is the one to blame for the confusion – this time.

(8) Nanduhirion.

(9) The Silverlode.

(10) Kibil-nâla. Means still the Silverlode, by the way.

(11) While in FOTR Aragorn says that he has seen hawks flying high up, he does not say as Elladan does here, ''That would account for the silence.''

(12) ''southwards'' changed from what was originally ''northwards''. Obviously, in this part I swapped lines among characters. But hey, so did Tolkien, several times, ere LOTR was completed!

(13) It was now 28 November (since they walked for three nights after this and attempted Cris-caron on 2 December).

(14) 'This incident was retained in FOTR, but it is not explained. The Winged Nazgúl had not yet crossed the River, according to TTT.

(15) This is unquestionably the point at which the name Rohan arose. The sentence itself was changed to ''Rohan where the Horsekings or Horselords are'', and later in FOTR to ''Who knows which side now the marshals of the Horse-Lords serve?''

(16) In the original story Strider favoured the passage of Moria and Gandalf the pass; in FOTR it was Aragorn who favoured the pass. I simply gave Strider's opinion to Gildor who knew the paths of Moria the best of all of them.


	8. Chapter 8: Snow and Stones

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** see Introduction

**Warning:** this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

**Rating:** PG, for this chapter

**Author's notes:**

Summary: Snow. Lots of it. Movie-verse with Saruman bringing down the mountain-top onto their heads (though without the ridiculous chanting of magic words from Gandalf's part) and the infamous Ring-scene once again. Some lines of dialogue and parts of the description are taken from ''The Treason of Isengard'' (HoME 7).

This chapter has been spell-checked but not beta-ed.

CHAPTER SIX: SNOW AND STONES

In the late afternoon, before preparations were made for moving, Gandalf spoke to the travellers.

''We have now come to our first serious difficulty and doubt'', he said. The pass that we ought to take is up there ahead'' – he waved his hand towards Taragaer: its sides were now dark and sullen, for the sun had gone, and its head was in grey cloud. ''It will take us at least two marches to get near the top of the pass. From certain signs we have seen recently I fear it may be watched or guarded; and in any case Aragorn and I have doubts of the weather, on this wind. But I am afraid we must go on. We can't go back into the winter; and further south the passes are held. Tonight we must push along as hard as we can.''

The hearts of the travellers sank at his words. But they hurried with their preparations, and started off at as good a pace as they could make. The winding and twisting road had long been neglected and in places was blocked with fallen stones, over which they had great difficulty in finding any way to lead the pack ponies. After a while Gildor let his horse take the lead, for in the darkening the instinct of the experiences animal were of more use than even the keen Elven eyes.

The night grew deadly dark under the great clouds; a bitter wind swirled among the rocks. The Elves seemed undisturbed by the foul weather, most of them Gildor and Elladan who were used to travelling in the wild, but the hobbits felt weary already, and even the Men and the Dwarf were not happy to push on.

By midnight they had already climbed to the very knees of the great mountains, and were going straight up under a mountain-side, with a deep ravine guessed but unseen on their right. Suddenly Frodo felt soft cold touches on his face. He put out his arm, and saw white snowflakes settle on his sleeve. Before long they were falling fast, swirling from every direction into his eyes, and filling all the air. The dark shapes of Gandalf and Aragorn, a few paces in front, could hardly be seen. Only Gildor's hair gleamed golden before all, like a shining beacon of hope. He knew he could not get lost as long as he could still see that soft golden gleam.

''I do not like this'', panted Sam just behind. ''snow is all right on a fine morning, seen from a window; but I like to be in bed while it is falling.'' As a matter of fact snow fell very seldom in most parts of the Shire, except the moors of the Northfarting. There would occasionally, in January of February, be a thin white dusting of it, but it soon vanished, and only rarely in cold winters was there a real fall – enough to make snowballs of.

Gandalf now called something they could not understand and Gildor halted. Frodo thought as the wizard came up by him that Gandalf already looked almost like a snow-man. Snow was white on his pointed hat and bowed shoulders, and it was already getting thick on the ground under foot. Gildor, whispering something into one ear of his horse, slowly walked back to them as well. The horse stood patiently, looking back at his master with bright, trusting eyes.

''This is bad, very bad!'' said the wizard. ''I feared that winter would catch up with us, yet never counted on snow. It seldom falls as far south as this except on the high peaks, and here we are not halfway up even to the high pass.''

''I know snow and storm from my youth in the Ered Nimrais(1),'' Boromir said, rising his voice above the howling of the wind, ''yet 'tis worse than I have ever seen. I wonder if the Enemy has aught to do with it. They say in my land that he can govern the storms in the _Daedeloth Deldúath_(2) that lie on the confines of Mordor.''

''_He_ can do more than that,'' Gildor answered, his eyes glittering colder than the deadly snowstorm around them, ''and yet _He_ is not invincible. _He_ has been defeated once – _He_ can be defeated again.''

''And you believe _you_ might be the one to defeat _Him_?'' Aragorn hissed, barely able to hold back his anger and frustration over the failing of his plan to cross the High Pass. Gildor gave him his best elegantly-arched eyebrow.

''Obviously so do you as well,'' he replied calmly, as if they were sitting in his garden in the far South, having tea. ''One wonders what encourages _you_ to the assumption that you might face the Dark One, while you clearly doubt _my_ ability to do so.''

The two glared at each other with open hostility through the thickening snowfall that was getting worse with every passing moment. Frodo suddenly became afraid that they might get into a true fight, and he knew not which one he would be more worried about. As much as he loved Aragorn, whom he considered a dear friend already, he has come to admire the proud and venerable Elf-Lord who was not ashamed of befriending simple hobbits from the Shire, sharing his blankets with them and telling them all the stunning tales of glorious days long gone.

Fortunately, the Lady Arwen saved him from his dilemma – and the Company from a serious break. She stepped between the competitors, glaring daggers first at Gildor, then at Aragorn, and said in a frighteningly sharp voice:

''Stop this at once – both of you! We are near death here, the hobbits can hardly stand, and you choose this very moment for your childish bickering? Get your wits together and see that we keep going, or else this will be the death of all of us!''

That shook them out of their personal little contest, and Elf and Man turned away without a further word. For a while they struggled on. The snow became a blinding blizzard, and soon it was in places almost knee-deep.

''It will be up over my head before long'', thought Frodo, dragging behind. His legs felt like lead at every step. Yet he kept setting one tired, hurting foot before the other, having lost all feeling in them, even that of cold an pain.

Suddenly they heard strange sounds: they may have been but tricks of the rising wind in cracks and gullies of the rocks, but it sounded like hoarse cries and howls of harsh laughter. Then stones began to fall whirling like leaves on the wind, and crashing onto the path and the rocks on either hand. Every now and again they heard in the darkness a dull rumble as a great boulder rolled down thunderously from hidden heights in the dark above.

The party halted. ''We cannot get any further tonight'', said Aragorn. ''You can call it the wind if you like, but I call it voices and those stones are aimed at us, or at least at the path.''

'''Tis the doing of Saruman'', said Gandalf bitterly; ''he is trying to bring down the mountain!''

''And he _does_ have the powers to do so,'' added Gildor. ''The Dark Lord is not the only one whose arm has grown long in the recent hundred years – or more.''

''What can we do?'' asked Frodo. His heart suddenly failed him, and he felt alone and lost in dark and driving snow, mocked at by demons of the mountains.

''Stop here or go back'', answered Gandalf. ''We are protected at present by the high wall on our left, and a deep gully on the right. Further up there is a wide shallow valley, and the road runs at the bottom of two long slopes. We should now hardly get through there without damage, quite apart from the snow.''

''We have to go back a little, though,'' Gildor said, seemingly undisturbed by the cold and the snowfall, though even his lips became slightly blue. ''This spot is slippery – one false step and we can easily fall to our deaths in the gully. Not all of you possess the light feet of the Elves.''

''Still, our feet are sure enough to keep up with you, Lord Gildor,'' Aragorn growled. '''Tis not the first time I have to cross this Path.''

''Yea, but have you ever crossed it in a snowstorm?'' Gildor asked with that infuriating Elven patience – as if he were talking to a small, belligerent child. ''I think not. Not even the Wandering Companies would take such risks. And now we not only have the Dark One against us, but Curunír as well. I know not which one is worse right now.''

Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment. ''Aragorn… Lord Gildor… cease your little contest, I beg of you. We have to make a decision, and we have to decide quickly, ere 'tis too late.''

After some debate they retreated to a spot they had passed just before the snow came on. There the path passed under a low overhanging cliff. It faced southwards and they hoped it would give them some protection from the wind. But the eddying blasts whirled in from either side, and the snow came down thicker than ever.

They huddled together with their backs to the wall: Elladan with Boromir, the hobbits with Gildor, Aragorn with Arwen. Even the wizard and the Dwarf had given up their stubborn pride and shared what body heat they have still left. The ponies and Gildor's horse stood dejected but patiently in front of them and served as some kind of screen, but before long the snow was up to their bellies and still mounting. The hobbits crouching behind were nearly buried.

A great sleepiness came over Frodo in Gildor's protective arms, and he felt himself fast sinking into a warm and hazy dream. He thought a fire was warming his toes, and out of the shadows he heard Bilbo's voice speaking. ''I do not think much of your diary'', he heard him say. ''snowstorm on December 2nd (5): there was no need to come back to report that.''

At the same time he felt himself gently shaken, and came back painfully to wakefulness. Gildor had lifted him off the ground and placed him onto his lap to warm him up as good as he could. ''This snow will be the death of the hobbits, Gandalf'', he said. ''We must do something.''

''Give them this'', said Gandalf, fumbling in his pack that lay beside him, and drawing out a leather flagon. ''Just a little each – for all of us. 'Tis very precious: one of Elrond's cordials, and I did not expect to have to use it so soon.''

''Oh, _miruvor,_'' Gildor murmured, giving the shivering hobbit a mouthful of the clear liquid. ''It happens not often that the Lord of Imladris allows it being taken off the valley. Nay, Frodo, 'tis enough. I want you warm, not drunk, and your stomach is almost empty. Now, 'tis your turn, Master Samwise. Careful, careful…''

Nestled in Elladan's arms, Boromir watched with awe as the proud and sometimes downright haughty Elf-Lord fussed over the two hobbits as if they were his own children. He could see near to nothing in the dense snowfall, still, it seemed to him that Gildor's expression softened considerably when dealing with the Halflings. Mayhap he truly did consider them something akin children.

''Nay, he does not,'' Elladan murmured; when they were this close, he could read Boromir's thoughts easily. ''But he knows the hobbits better than anyone else, save mayhap Gandalf. He knows well when they need to be pampered and when they can bear greater burdens than any Man – or any Elf, indeed. 'Tis definitely pampering time, it seems.''

As they watched the Elf-Lord pampering his little friends, the snowfall slowed down a little. Then, after a while, it ceased entirely – for the moment.

''The sooner we make a move and get down again, the better,'' said Gandalf. ''There is still more snow to come up there.

Much as they all desired to get down again, however, it was easier said than done. Beyond their refuge the snow was already some feet deep, and in places was piled into great wind-drifts; and it was wet and soft. Even Gildor, light-footed as all Elves, could only get forward with great labour, and had only gone a few feet on the downward path when he was floundering in snow above his waist. Their plight looked desperate.

Boromir looked down the endless whiteness. He was the biggest of the Company, being some six feet and very broad-shouldered as well; though both Aragorn and Elladan were about an inch or so taller, they were less stout in their build and seemed weaker. So he felt it was his duty to try making a path for the others.

''I shall try going on down, if I can,'' he offered. ''As far as I can make out our course of last night, the path turns right round that shoulder of rock down there. And if I remember rightly, a furlong or so beyond the turn there was a flat space at the top of a long, steep slope – very heavy going it was, as we came up. From that point I might be able to get e view, and some idea of how the snow lies further down.''

Elladan wanted to go with him, of course, and so did Aragorn and Gildor, but Boromir told them in no uncertain terms that they only would be in his way. So, reluctantly, they gave in and let him go.

He struggled slowly forward, plunging in snow that was everywhere above his knees, and in places rose almost shoulder-high. Often he seemed to be swimming or burrowing with his great arms rather than walking, and Elladan felt the icy grip of fear around his own heart. At least Boromir vanished from sight and passed round the turn. He was long gone, and the others began to be anxious, too, fearing that he had been engulfed in some drift or snow-filled hollow, or had fallen over the hidden brink into the ravine.

''I shall go and look after him,'' Arwen decided, unable to watch the anguish on her brother's face any longer. ''I am the lightest of us, the snow might even hold my weight. We need proof that naught has happened to him.''

And ere any one could have protested, she leapt lightly upon the freshly-fallen snow and run down the slope like a nimble deer, her soft boots leaving barely a print upon the soft white surface.

Another lengthy period of time passed 'til they finally heard her call. Boromir, too, reappeared round the bend in the path and was labouring back towards them, while Arwen walked on his side upon the snow.

''I am weary,'' he said; ''but I have brought back some hope. There is a deep wind-drift just round the turn, and I was nearly buried in it, but fortunately it is not wide. Beyond it the snow suddenly gets less. At the top of the slope 'tis barely a foot deep, and further down, white though it looks, seems to be but a light coverlet: only a sprinkling in places.''

'''Tis the ill will of Taragaer,'' muttered Gimli; these were the first words he uttered ever since the beginning of the snowstorm. ''He does not love Dwarves, or Elves. He has cast this snow upon us with special intent. That drift was devised to cut off our descent.''

''Then Taragaer happily has forgotten that we have with us a mountaineer who knows his far kindred, the peaks of the White Mountains,'' said Elladan, eyeing his lover with an odd mixture of deep concern and almost proprietary pride. '''Twas good fortune that gave us Boromir as a member of our Company.''(6)

''But how are _we_ to get through this drift, even if we ever get as far as the turn?'' asked Sam, voicing the thoughts of both Frodo and Gimli who were too proud to ask.

'''Tis a pity,'' said the Lady Arwen gravely, but her eyes sparkled with mischief, ''that Gandalf cannot go before us with a bright flame, and melt us a path.''

'''Tis a pity that Elves cannot fly over the mountains and fetch the Sun to save us,'' answered Gandalf, irritated. ''Even I need something to work on. I cannot burn snow. But,'' he added, shooting a baleful glare at the grinning Elladan, ''I _could_ turn that brother of yours into a flaming torch, if that will serve: he would burn brightly while he lasted.''

''Spare me!'' cried Elladan, hiding behind the broad back of Boromir with a mock shriek, while the hobbits nearly fell over, they were laughing so hard. ''I fear that a dragon is concealed in the shape of our wizard. Though a tame dragon would be useful at this hour.''

''It will be a wild dragon, if you say any more,'' Gandalf threatened, yet his eyes were soft as he watched the delighted hobbits. It was good to see them laughing again, even if they laughed at his expense.

''Well, well! _When heads are at loss bodies must serve,_ as they say in my country'', said Boromir, barely able to suppress his own grin. ''I have some strength still left; and so has Aragorn. We must use that, while it lasts. I shall carry one of the Little Folk, and he another. Gimli shall be set on one of the ponies, and led by Gandalf. The Fair Folk can get down on their own feet, I deem. ''I will come back for the packs when we have forced a passage''

''I shall bring the other pony,'' Elladan offered. And so he did, and they set about unloading the faithful beasts at once.

''Aragorn and I shall come back when we got the Little Folk through,'' Boromir said to Elladan. You, Gildor and the Lady Arwen can wait here, or follow behind in our track if you can.''

Then picking up Frodo Boromir strode forward. Slowly they ploughed their way forward. Gildor, leading his horse, followed the two Men immediately, breaking a wider path for the smaller ponies that came after them. Arwen slipped in the middle between him and Elladan, with Gandalf and Gimli as the rear. The old wizard felt some secret relief that for once he could follow a path already made.

At least they reached and passed the turn, and came to the edge of the drift. Frodo marvelled at the strength of Boromir, seeing the passage that he had already forced  through it with no better tool than his sword  and his great arms. Even now, burdened as he was with Sam clinging on his back, he was thrusting the snow forward and aside, and widening the passage for those who followed. Behind him Aragorn was labouring.

 It took some time to reach the bend, but they did so without mishap. After a short halt they laboured on to the edge of the drift. Suddenly, though, Boromir stumbled on some hidden stone, and fell headlong. Frodo was thrown from his shoulder into deep snow and slid at least twenty feet downwards, while Boromir slowly staggered back to his feet and Aragorn put down Sam, in order to help if necessary.

Boromir was the first to see the Ring as it lay, half-buried in the snow, still hung on its chain that had somehow come loose. There it lay, glittering even in the almost-darkness of the storm, like a shining beacon of hope. As if a will other than his own had ruled his movements, the son of Denethor stepped closer and bent down to pick up the chain.

From the corner of his eyes he saw Frodo searching frantically for the Ring, first under his clothes, then around himself.

The Ring felt strangely heavy, turning and glimmering, almost prancing on its chain. As if it were seeking his approval. It was beautiful… precious… It meant power beyond imagination… a strength, enough to beat the Dark Lord, enough to protect that was dear for his heart.

'''Tis a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing… such a little thing'', he murmured in awe, his eyes clinging to that little, yet oh-so-powerful wheel of fire.

[Yet it shall be the downfall of you and your White City if you sell your heart to its lure], the inner voice of Elladan said in his mind. He shivered. This was not the first time that Elladan bespoke him – the Stone made it easier for them to speak from mind to mind by every new occasion – yet never had his Elf to enter his mind by force like this before.

Almost at the same time he heard the hard, tense voice of Aragorn from afar, as if the Heir of Isildur were calling to him from the other side of the mountains.

''Boromir! Give the Ring to Frodo!''

'Twas a command if he ever heard one – and a harsh one to that. Yet ere he could react in any way, he heard Elladan's voice once again – this time from the outside, and it was equally hard and tense… threatening and deadly.

''Watch your hand, Estel…''

Boromir looked at his King-to-be and noticed with sinking heart that Aragorn's hand lay upon his sword-hilt, ready to draw. 'Twas like a blow straight into his face.

''As you wish,'' he said with a short, bitter laugh. ''I care not.''

And truly, he cared no more. Not for the Ring, and even less for the Man whom – by law – he owned his allegiance. He walked down the slope, swinging the Ring on its chain carelessly. At this moment he only wished to be as far from Aragorn as possible.

Aragorn snatched the chain from his hand, nearly breaking it, and laid it around Frodo's neck again. The hobbit was trembling, for he saw all too well that things had taken an ugly turn among the only Men in their Company. He might have been small but he was no child, nor a fool. Boromir shook his head sadly. He felt the urge to tousle Frodo's curls encouragingly, but with Aragorn in such foul mood it might prove dangerous. So he simply turned away, leaving it to the possessive Ranger to care for the Ringbearer.

Gildor watched the whole scene with cold eyes.

''And so the seed of betrayal has already been spread,'' he commented softly to Arwen, who was standing frozen in the snowfall, too shaken from what she had seen to even move. ''This abomination of true art that had already caused the death of thousands, among them that of whose skills made its making possible in the first place, is reaching out for the hearts of Men again. Which one of them shall stand forth and which one shall fall, I wonder.''

''You believe it only poisons the hearts of the mortal?'' Arwen asked, too softly for any one but Elladan to hear. ''Are you not tempted yourself, scion of Kings, wise and proud Lord of Edhellond?''

''If I were to take it, 'twould only be as a wergild for the lives it cost – the most precious for me among them,'' Gildor answered. ''Yet what good would this tool of evil do for me? Can it bring me back Celebrimbor? Can it ensure that he would be released from the Halls unchanged, waiting for me in the haven of Avallóne? Nay, it cannot. Then why should I desire it? There is naught in Middle-earth I would still want – save my vengeance.''

''The Ring could help you with _that_,'' said Arwen, though she knew as well as Gildor did that the Ring would never turn against its Maker. But she wondered what he would reply.

''I need no blasted Ring in order to fulfil my curses upon the Dark One,'' Gildor shrugged, his arrogant smile reappearing for a moment. ''I very nearly faced him in the Last Battle, but I was delayed and missed my moment. I shall not miss it again.''

''You were delayed by saving Erestor's life,'' Arwen reminded him gently. ''You should turn your look from the past and look towards the future. There is still some hope left.''

''My future, if I have one, lays beyond the Sea,'' Gildor sighed. ''Yet what about yours? You ask me to forget the one that I loved more than life – are _you_ willing to give up on the Man you pledged your life and your immortality to?''

Arwen gave him a very…. strange look. ''I did no such thing,'' she said. ''Not yet.''

''Not long ago you were determined to do so,'' Gildor pointed out, slightly surprised. ''You gifted the pendant of Lúthien upon him…''(3)

''… as a token of my promise that I shall not chose anyone else 'til the quest is over,'' Arwen finished for him. ''I do love him, Gildor – yet he seems to change so swiftly it frightens me. Every time we meet, he seems to be a different Man – I know not if I can keep up with the changes. Even if I became mortal, I would keep thinking and feeling as Elves do…''

''This seems not to frighten Elladan the least,'' remarked Gildor thoughtfully. ''He made his Final Choice quickly enough – though he had much less to achieve than _you_ can hope for.''

''Elladan has always been different,'' Arwen sighed. ''The blood of our mortal sires runs deep in him. He always had differences to blend in. Yet I… I had never considered the Choice of Elros ere I met Estel and came to love him.''

''Yea, but _is_ your love strong enough to give up everything that makes you the person you are for it?'' Gildor asked seriously. ''There was a time when you used to love _me_ as well – yet you turned away from me nevertheless.''

''Your heart was not free to be given,'' Arwen replied.

''True,'' Gildor admitted. ''Yet I might have learned to forget the past and look into the future again, had you given me the chance to try. My heart _was_ given, but it was not _bound_.''

''Not by any spoken oath, it was not,'' Arwen agreed. ''Yet it was bound for eternity by love, loyalty and devotion.''

''None of which can warm my _fëa_ – or my bed,'' Gildor added bitterly. ''All my lovers were but a sparkle in the cold, lonely night that has been my life ever since you stepped out of it, Lady Undómiel. And as for you – you have not been any luckier yourself. Being always the second choice. Amroth left you for Nimrodel(4) and died for her, and Estel…''

''Estel loves me with all his heart!'' Arwen interrupted defensively.

''Does he?'' Gildor replied softly. ''Yea, mayhap he does. But will he still worship you and admire you when you cease to be the powerful and wise Elven Princess of Imladris and become a mortal woman? Think of it, Arwen! Think of it very carefully ere you forfeit the grace of your life. Consider it whether you truly cannot live without him, and choose only when you can answer that question with certainty.''

With that he left Arwen's side, and – lengthening his strides – picked up Frodo and tucked him under his cloak. Arwen saw that Boromir had already done the same with Samwise. She sighed and – drawing her cloak tighter around herself – moved on to follow him, moving out of the reach of the malevolent mountain.

Leaning against Elladan for a short moment for emotional support, Boromir finally picked up Sam and set him on his shoulder, leaving it to Aragorn to take Frodo, knowing all too well that the Ranger would never trust him around the Ringbearer. Not after what had just happened. Gimli, miraculously, managed to remain on his pony, with Elladan leading the other one behind. They ploughed forward again, to get into safety as quickly as they could.

They were in the midst of the drift, and Boromir and Sam were almost through, when a rumbling stone fell from the slope above and hurtling close to Frodo's head, thudded deep into the snow. But with the casting of that last stone the malice of the mountain seemed to be expended, as if it were satisfied that the invaders were in retreat and would not dare to return. There was no further mishap.

On the flat shelf above the steep slope they found, as Boromir had reported, that the snow was only shallow. There they waited, while Aragorn and Boromir returned with the second pony for the rest of their packs and bundles. By the time they were all gathered together again, morning was far advanced.

They looked out from the high place where they stood over the lands. Daylight was now as full as it would be, unless the heavy clouds were broken. Far below, and over the tumbled country falling away from the foot of the incline, Frodo thought he could see the dell from which they had started to climb the night before. His legs ached and his head was dizzy as he thought of the long painful march down again.

In the distance, below him but still high above the lower hills, he saw many black specks moving in the air. He rubbed his eyes, but the black specs remained, circling in the chill air like dark omens of many foul things yet to come.

''The birds again'', he said in a low voice, pointing.

''It cannot be helped now'', said Gandalf. ''Whether they are good or bad, or nothing to do with us, we must go on down at once. We cannot stay on the knees of Taragaer for another night-fall!''

The wind was blowing stiffly again over the pass that was hidden in cloud behind them; already a few flakes of snow were curling and drifting down. Taragaer had defeated them. They turned their backs on the Dimrill Stair, and stumbled wearily down the slope.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) The White Mountains in Gondor.

(2) ''Deadly Nightshade'', the Mountains of Shadow, called the Ephel Dúath in LOTR.

(3) Well, since that pendant was entirely a movie invention, I felt free to miss a little with it. It _could_ have originally belonged to Lúthien, after all. There is simply no-where said that it has. :)

(4) A detail I created for my other story, ''Innocence''.

(5) Originally, the Fellowship had started earlier from Rivendell and the journey only took 10 days, instead of a fortnight.

(6) No, seriously, this _is_ said in the original script – by Gandalf, though. But Elladan deserved the chance to be proud of his beloved. g


	9. Chapter 9: Wolf Moon

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer: see Introduction**

**Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.**

**Rating: PG – 13, for rather brutal fighting scenes.**

**Author's notes:**

**Summary: The Wargs. Again. Some of the dialogue is taken from The Return of the Shadow" (HoME 6) and "The Treason of Isengard" (HoME 7).**

**CHAPTER NINE: WOLF MOON**

It was late in the afternoon, and the grey light was already again waning fast when we got back to our camp of the previous night. The hobbits were weary and very, very hungry. The mountains were veiled in a deepening dusk full of snow: even there in the foothills snow was falling gently. The birds had vanished.

The labours of the recent morning - not to mention the rather ugly clash with Estel - had obviously taken their toll on my beloved. He must have hit his leg when he stumbled over that hidden stone, for he limped noticeably, and only then did I realize that there was dried blood on his face. _How could I have overlooked that he had been hurt_, I chastised myself, calling out for Arwen who not only inherited most of our father's healing powers but had been trained as a healer, too.

My sister examined Boromir's face thoroughly. There were several scratches and bruises - none too serious, thank the Valar. The leg looked a lot worse, though; there was an ugly, purple bruise covering half of his calf, already swollen enough that getting his boots back on would be painful. But he could not go on bare-footed in winter, so – after Arwen put some healing cream on his calf – we forced the damaged leg back into its hard leather confinement.

My proud and stubborn lover endured the necessary torture without so much as a flinch. Mayhap the weariness numbed the pain a little, too. Only when Arwen was done and left did he sink into my arms, shivering from a cold that seemed to come more from inside than from outside – though indeed the weather was chilly enough.

We had no fuel for a fire, and made ourselves as warm as we could with all our spare furs and blankets. Gildor asked his horse to lie down on a patch that he had previously cleaned from the snow and built a nest for the hobbits against the warm belly of the faithful beast.

''Bring your Man over here,'' he said to me. ''He spent too much of his strength fighting the snow up the Pass – he must be kept warm. Let him cuddle with the Little Folk, or he shall not be able to go on again in the morning.''

My dear, brick-headed jewel(1) of a Man tried to protest, of course, yet I was in no mood for his stubbornness, so I just swept him from his feet and tucked him in with the hobbits, wrapping him in several blankets like a cocoon. Estel kept giving him dour looks, and I began to get truly upset, for I could not forget that he had been ready to slay Boromir because of that cursed Ring.

Oh, I knew that my beloved was tempted by the Ring. Valar, _I was tempted by it, with a lot less to gain and to lose than he had. I believe it lured every single one of us, save perhaps the simple and pure-hearted manservant of the Ringbearer – though I was almost certain that even Samwise would reach out for it if there were no other means to protect his master._

Would I have any use for the powers of the Ring? Oh, very much so, I fear. It could give me the power to become a great Lord of Elves and Men, for am I not the firstborn son of the Elder Line of the Peredhil? The first King of fallen Númenórë, had he not been my own uncle? Even with Estel still living, I could become the High King of Arnor and Gondor.   Now that I have chosen the Fate of Men, by ancient law my claim would be stronger than his.

Before Anárion's heirs died out, the Council of Gondor rejected the Heirs of Isildur as Kings. That is why the House of Húrin, the family of the Stewards could never rise to kingship. But _my heritage, my very _life_ reaches back long before Anárion.  True, I was born after his death by some 130 years, but what does that matter?_

_I should be the King of Arnor and Gondor – to shake the wayward children of Númenórë out of their stupor and lead them back to the path of their forefathers..._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Elladan!" Boromir grabbed the shoulder of his Elf and shook him, not too gently. "Elladan, what is happening to you?"

He sounded seriously concerned – and with right, Elladan admitted reluctantly. Having an unresponsive Elf staring at you with glazed-over eyes could make the bravest of Men feel uncomfortable.

"I am all right, meleth-nîn", he murmured reassuringly. "I just was – deep in thought."

"More like in a trance of some sort, I daresay," Boromir countered, still worried, then he lowered his voice and added. "'Tis the Ring, is it? 'Tis calling to you as well as to everyone else."

"Aye, it does," Elladan sighed. "Mayhap Gildor is the only one capable of resisting its lure - because of his deep hatred towards its Maker. For him, 'tis a personal quest, one of vengeance. Whenever he looks at the Ring, he sees the mutilated body of Celebrimbor before his inner eye. But we others... we are vulnerable to the fake promises of the Ring."

Boromir gave him a piercing look. "What did it promise to _you_?" he asked quietly.

Elladan sighed. How could he put the intricately-woven tapestry of temptations the Ring had whispered to him into mere words? To be honest, he did not understand why he had found those whispers so tempting in the first place. He was not Gildor – never in his whole life had he yearned for power... until now.

But in a sudden moment of clarity he finally understood where the true promise of power was hidden.

Power could mean the chance to make differences. To change laws and customs and to become the Lord of Fate – that of his own and that of those who were dear to him.

"_You_", he replied slowly, humbled by the realization. "At the very end, 'twas _you that the Ring promised me."_

"But you have me already," said Boromir with a frown. Elladan gave him a pained smile.

"Yet how long am I allowed to keep you?" the Elf asked. "I just came to understand that there are not many things I would be reluctant to give up for that chance... if there are any, should temptation become too strong. I am only a mortal now, after all..."

'Twas meant as a joke, of course, but Boromir felt not like jesting.

"You speak foolishly, Elf," he grumbled, keeping his voice low, for he did not want to wake the exhausted Halflings. "Mortal or not, in the heart of your heart you still are who you have ever been: the firstborn of Elrond Half-Elven, whose grandfather is the evening star. I know not what you see in me, and I fear I shall never understand it, but I know that you would never succumb to darkness."

"I wish _I was_ this sure of myself," Elladan sighed and – stepping gracefully over the softly snoring Sam – slid down between him and Gildor's horse, gathering him in his arms once again. "Try to rest now, beloved. 'Twill be hard enough to go on in the morning."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The night was long. No-one dared to fell asleep, save the hobbits who simply were no longer able to fight their utter exhaustion. Boromir sat on the cold floor, leaning against Elladan's chest, the two hobbits cuddled against his sides. Elladan had told him to seek some sleep, for he would need all his remaining strength soon, but he was not able to do so. His injured leg was throbbing with pain and his head hurt too. So he tried to be as comfortable as possible, wrapped in Elladan's arms and hugging the little ones to himself, while his restless mind could not help but follow the others from their company.

Gandalf sat alone, pulling his heavy cloak tightly around himself, and so did Gimli, though he sought out the company of the ponies to keep himself warm. To Boromir's surprise, Aragorn, too was seated by himself, for the lady Arwen kept Gildor's company this time. When he strained his ears, he could even hear their low voices, though he understood little to naught from their conversation, for they were talking in the Ancient Tongue of Elves that he was not fluent in (unlike his scholarly brother).

''There is something I have wanted to ask you ever since my Choosing Ceremony,'' Arwen said quietly enough that not even Aragorn would hear it; this was between her and Gildor alone. ''Why is it that there seems to be such bitterness, nigh hatred, between you and Father? Glorfindel told me that you both were living in Gil-galad's court in your youth. How is it that you were never friends?''

''Oh, but we were,'' Gildor replied. '''Tis my fault that we are friends no more. I hurt your father badly – and more. He might have forgiven me, yet I doubt that he shall ever forget.''

Arwen looked at him in surprise.

'''Tis not often that the proud Lord of Edhellond admits a mistake,'' she said. Gildor gave her a bitter grin.

''Yea, my pride. 'Twas the root of all that went wrong in my whole life. For had I not been obsessed by the wish to become King and the Heir of Gil-galad, things between Elrond and I might have turned out _very differently. Yet at that time I was certain that I would need heirs in order to gain kingship and threw away something precious...''_

Arwen's eyes grew impossibly wide. ''Father and you?'' she whispered. Gildor nodded.

''For a short while, yea; your mother was not even born back then. We were both rather... infatuated. Had he been born a female, we might even have bound.''

''You could have bound with him, regardless of his gender,'' Arwen pointed out mildly. Gildor sighed.

''I know that _now_. But I was very young at that time, barely over four hundred, and though my parents allowed me the freedoms of the Sindar, the teachings of Valinor still were too strong in my mind. A King had to be properly married, and according to the customs of my mother's people that meant to be married to a female. And I wanted to become King one day very badly.''

''Do you still want it?'' Arwen asked, still shocked a little by the brutal honesty of her former lover. Gildor shrugged.

''Do I want it? Aye, I very much do. I _am the rightful heir of Finrod Felagund, after all. Yet six thousand years in Middle-earth had taught me that I shall never be King. There is no more left for me to rule here, save my small realm in the South, and in the West – there are others, with a stronger claim and in the right position already. High King Finarfin, to name just one of them. So, I have learnt to become less than I had been born to be.''_

''Yet back in Lindon, you were still hoping, was it not so?'' asked Arwen. Gildor nodded.

''I was. For that, I turned my back on Elrond, and when Gil-galad made him vice-regent, I challenged him and called him a whore.''

''Father _never_ was the lover of the High King!'' Arwen protested; then she paused for a moment and added hesitantly: ''Was he?''

''I never found out,'' Gildor answered thoughtfully. ''That had been the best-guarded secret in the court of Lindon. I mean, every one knew that there was more between the two of them than just friendship. They loved each other deeply on many different levels, yet they never acted upon it openly.''

''You truly know not?'' Arwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. ''After Mother's departure, my brothers and I often guessed what might have gone between Father and the High King – we _did _hear a lot of gossip, after all, when our elders thought we were not listening. Some even said they were bound.''

''Gil-galad would never do such thing secretly,'' Gildor shook his head. ''He would have acknowledged such a union publicly, ere he made Elrond his vice-regent. As for them being lovers, mayhap – I see the reason why they kept it a secret... if they were lovers, that is.''

''What reason?'' Arwen inquired. Gildor shrugged.

''There were many young Elves from good Houses watching to find a chink in their armour, so that they might assault Elrond's position in the court. Finding proof that he, indeed, shared the King's bed _might have been such a chink.''_

''Were _you_ one of them?'' Arwen asked in a tense voice. Gildor shrugged again.

''For a while, yea, I was – and not for power's sake only. I was jealous, too.''

''For a while,'' Arwen repeated. ''What happened that changed your heart?''

''The King sent me to Eregion with an urgent message,'' Gildor answered simply, ''and I fell in love. Or, to be more accurate, I finally came to understand whom I had loved for a long time.''

''Celebrimbor,'' Arwen nodded. ''Another male. How ironic.''

''Is it not?'' Gildor smiled bitterly. ''It took me a long time ere I accepted that there would never be another one for me. I have had lovers, yea, both male and female – I was in need of much comfort after his death, after all – but no-one had ever touched my heart... until I found _you.''_

Arwen shook her head in sorrow. ''Nay; you might have loved me, but you were not _in love_ with me. We have discussed this before. Many times.''

''And you have never been listening,'' said Gildor. Arwen gave him a curious look.

"Certainly, I have been listening," she replied. "That is why I chose to let you go."

"No, my Lady," Gildor shot back, "you let me go for you feared you could not fight _his_ ghost."

"Could I?" Arwen asked quietly. Gildor shrugged.

"How can I know? You never tried."

"True," Arwen admitted; then, following a sudden urge, she asked: "What was he like?"

"Like fire itself," Gildor answered simply and pulled a fine golden chain from under his tunic. On it a small golden pendant hung, not bigger than the pad of his thumb. He opened the tiny lock and lo! Inside the pendant, molten into clear crystal, was a fragile ring, made of a single, flame-red lock of hair.

Arwen lent closer, not noticing the jealous looks of Aragorn, and caught her breath. Even after all those thousands of years, the lock of hair seemed so _alive_ as if it had captured some of the fire of its long-dead owner.

"I could glimpse him when he was standing up in the uppermost chamber of Minas Elenath(2), looking at the roads," said Gildor softly, closing the pendant again. "His hair shone like a beacon before the golden-gilded shutters of the upper windows. You see, I have no need for the Ring of the One that betrayed and murdered him. I have a ring of my own."

"And you are bound to it just as well," Arwen pointed out.

"'Tis all I have left," Gildor sighed. "I have carried this memento for over four thousand years."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Boromir wiggled uncomfortably. His leg still hurt, and despite Elladan's warming presence, he felt cold. He sighed, listening to the hissing of the wind between the trees and rocks. It filled the cold emptiness of the night with its howling...

Howling?! Suddenly Boromir felt a deep dread overshadowing his heart. He grabbed Elladan's arm that was wrapped around him and shook it sharply.

"Elladan! Listen to the wind!"

A small movement signaled his Elf returning from the strange realm of Elven waking dreams behind him. Then Elladan disengaged himself and – stepping over the still sleeping hobbits again – went over to Gandalf and Aragorn.

"The wind howls with wolf-voices," he said grimly. "It seems the Wargs crossed to the west side of the mountains, Aragorn. We cannot stay here any longer, or we shall be eaten before daybreak."

"We need to find a place where we have some cover and can defend ourselves a little better," Arwen agreed. "There used to be watchtowers atop the hills while the Kings of Arnor still ruled these lands. Let us see if we can find one of those; even if ruined, their walls can protect us.

Elladan frowned, searching his memory. "There is one of them half a mile to the south-east from here," he finally said; "unless I am quite astray."

"You are not," said Gildor, walking over to them. "But it will be a hard run to reach it in time."

"Do we have any other choice?" asked Aragorn sourly. "Let us pick up the hobbits, as they would never keep up with us; and Elladan can support Boromir."

No-one had a better idea, thus they broke camp in a great hurry, with Arwen and Gandalf leading the ponies. Despite his short stature, Gimli had no difficulty running just as fast as the long-limbed Elves and the Ranger, but Boromir was seriously hindered by his leg wound. Elladan had to carry the greater part of his weight, almost lifting him from the floor of the shallow little valley they were treading.

The stony height of a steep little hill was clearly visible before them They had barely reached its feet when Boromir, too, noticed the first howl; his eyes being less sharp than those of the Elves (or even Aragorn), he could make no difference between the wind and the wolf-voices before. Then a second howl came, this one from much nearer, and he felt cold sweat breaking out of his every pore. He came to a halt after only a few yards of painful climbing and looked around nervously.

"Keep going!" urged him Elladan between clenched teeth. "We do not have much time left!"

A third howl answered the second one now, and this time it clearly came from somewhere behind them on a further-away slope of the valley. Aragorn, too, held on for a moment, listening intently, with Frodo clinging to his back, frozen with horror.

"Hurry up!' the Ranger called back to Elladan. "There are at least two hunting packs, closing up on us from both sides."

"I can hear that," muttered Elladan, dragging Boromir with him upwards, He knew that reaching the hilltop was their only hope; not even he could outrun the Wargs on the long haul, and Boromir, injured and weary from the fight against the snow earlier, had even less of a chance.

The howls multiplied in the nearly impenetrable darkness, sounding nearer every time. Elladan had hunted these fell beasts often, and his experienced ear told him that the Wargs had already scented their prey and were now spreading to flank them. There was another eerie howl, right ahead and above of them. He tried to pick up his pace, but Boromir was little more than dead weight, hanging from his arm, his stiff leg barely functional, his feet slipping on the frozen soil every other step.

Elladan held on, looking for a place where he could put Boromir down and defend him, as they seemed to have no chance to reach the hilltop. About a hundred yards away, there appeared to be a rock shelf trusting out of the hillside. If he could only climb fast enough with Boromir slowing him down...

Boromir, too, was well aware of the peril. The long, shuddering cries of the hunting pack drew closer, answering each other as if synchronizing their moves like Gondor's troops did by using horn signals, He knew it was useless to tell Elladan to leave him behind and save himself, so he tried to be less of a burden, using his free hand as much as his one good leg, grasping at exposed, frozen roots for balance as they tumbled towards the ledge. But he could hear the thudding of paws behind them already, and he doubted that they would reach it in time.

Then he looked up and froze. Right above them, on the very rock shelf they were trying to reach desperately, the phantom shape of a large, silver-furred beast appeared. Mayhap the deep shadows made it look larger than it actually was, but the Warg certainly looked at least as big as their ponies. It threw its head back ears flattening, yellow eyes gleaming ominously, and released a long, chilling howl.

Boromir's heart sank, seeing that the way of their escape (if it could be called that at all) was cut short from the other side. Injured and at the end of his strength, he stood no chance against one of these beasts - and now he could sense the fast approach of the other hunter behind them. He was going to die on the frozen rock of this nameless hill, and he would take Elladan with him. _That_ thought was worse than facing his own immanent death.

Suddenly, the high-pitched whistle of an arrow could be heard from above, and the Warg on the ledge stumbled, screaming in pain. An Elven arrow shuddered in its throat, hitting the main artery with deadly precision, and the creature jerked violently one more time ere falling from the rock to its death. High up on the hilltop, the slender frame of Arwen Undómiel appeared in a gap of the broken circle of large boulder-stones – the last remnants of a watchtower that once had crowned the hill. She had a long bow in her hand.

"Hurry up!" she called out to her brother, who – with a last, desperate effort – hauled Boromir up to the rock shelf, ere nocking and releasing her next arrow.

This one missed its target, though, and the Warg behind them had already launched into a leap. Boromir could hear the harsh rasp of the beast's breathing; sense the foul smell of its breath. Regardless of his wounded leg, he rolled onto his side, away from the lunging jaws, and the Warg, unable to change the angle of its attack, crashed into the unforgiving rock headfirst. It was numbed for a short moment, and Boromir, grabbing its jaw, jerked its head to the side with all his remaining strength. He could hear the loud crack as the beast's neck snapped, feeling grim satisfaction. With his healthy foot he kicked the corpse, rolling it down the ledge, which slowed down the next attacker long enough for him to draw his sword.

This was just in time, for the next Warg lunged already, two others going for Elladan at the same instant. Obviously, the pack behind them sensed that they were the weaker prey and had decided to finish them off ere going for the others who had better cover and more weapons. Boromir met his attacker with the point of his sword almost instinctively. He had never fought Wargs before, they were rarely seen in the South and came never further down than Rohan, but had heard enough hair-raising tales from Théodred to know that at the end, they were just beasts. Evil, malevolent beasts, for certain, but they could be slain by any good blade.

Surely enough, the sword of Húrin(3) passed through the wolf's throat like hot knife through butter, even though the arm that wielded it was weakening. Boromir gave the heavy body a vicious kick, but he no longer had the strength to fling it off the ledge.

That was a very bad thing indeed, for the hunting pack had now caught up with them fully, and no less than three other large beasts hurled themselves at him, slanted yellow eyes burning with ravenous bloodlust. His back was protected by the rocky surface, but his injured leg reduced his means of self-defense greatly, making him dependent on the waning strength of his sword-arm and upper body alone. He regretted now having left his shield behind; he could have used it as protection _and_ as a weapon against the Wargs.

Still, a life spent on the battlefield fighting against impossible odds proved an advantage in this particular fight. His sword-arm moved almost on its own, lopping off the head of the largest and fastest attacker with a force that he had not expected himself. He stopped the leap of the second wolf by ramming his left arm into its jaw with brutal strength he did not even know he still possessed, hoping that the cruel fangs would not be able to cut through both his strong leather gauntlet _and his mail shirt, while bringing his blade around with his right to slash the throat of the third one._

The risky move succeeded, but he knew he was fighting a lost battle. The second Warg was still attached to his forearm, jaws closing on him with such force that he could feel the link of his chain mail being drawn into his bruised flesh – and still more beasts were coming, if the elongated howls were any indication.

Then he heard a sickening crunch, and the pressure of his arm loosened considerably. He looked up, dazed, directly into the round face of Gimli. The Dwarf must have run down the hill and crushed the Warg's skull with the blunt side of his great battle-axe.

"Are you still alive?" asked Gimli, and when he nodded, the Dwarf ran over to Elladan to help him. Boromir felt two hands grabbing him with inhuman strength, as Gildor lifted his battered body and threw him over his shoulder in one smooth – and not too gentle – move.

"It seems to be my destiny to pull Elrond's pets out of wolf-jaws," the Elf-Lord grumbled in apparent irritation, and began to climb up the hill again quickly, not the least hindered by Boromir's weight.

Arwen and Aragorn were racing downhill to help Elladan as well, and moments later they all reached the broken remnants of the once-protective wall. For the time being the wolves retreated, it seemed. But they all knew 'twas only a momentary relief.

Inside the stone circle a few old and twisted trees stood, and in the middle there was a shallow dent, encircled by flat, grey stones: a fire-ring, often used by traveling Rangers, Elladan explained. There they lit a fire for, as the hunting packs already knew where they hid, sitting in the dark would not help them.

The ponies and Gildor's horse stood together under the trees, nibbling on the dry, half-frozen grass. The ponies trembled and sweated with fear, but the Elven horse seemed as intrepid as her master, and her calm presence helped the smaller beasts to overcome their panic. The hobbits kept lingering around them, though Boromir was not certain who encouraged whom in this particular case.

"The Wargs will not attack again, not 'til the other packs arrive," said Elladan, sitting down next to him. "Alas, we cannot leave here during the night, and I dare not remove your boots, as we might not be able to put them back on you if your leg got any worse. But let me take a look at that arm of yours!"

Boromir was too weak and weary to protest, as he would have done otherwise, disliking 'the fuss' as he called the customary eagerness of healers. Thus Elladan could remove his gauntlet and his vambrace without any further argument, and – pushing up the sleeve of his mail shirt – examined his injured arm closely. There were ugly red and purple bruises, and it was slightly swollen, but the skin seemed unbroken, which relieved Elladan greatly.

"You have been lucky," he said, wrapping a wet cloth around the damaged arm. "The fangs of the Warg were unable to cut through your chain mail. Their fangs are poisonous and filthy. Their bites are painful and slow to heal."

"Are you... speaking of... experience?" asked Boromir, fighting a hopeless battle again, this time against his own weariness.

"I have been bitten by Wargs a few times," answered Elladan with a shrug; then he kissed Boromir on the brow. "Try to sleep a little, _meleth-nîn_. I shall wake you up in time."

Sleep did not come to Boromir, despite his weariness, but he did doze for an hour or so uneasily. The others sat around the fire, except for those who were on guard, discussing another possible route for crossing the Mountains – assuming they lived to see the morning.

"Where are we to go, even if we can fight off the Wargs?" asked Frodo glumly. "It is no use trying the pass again; but you said yourself last night, that we could not now cross the passes further north because of the winter, nor further south because of other enemies."

"There is no need to remind me," answered Gandalf. "The choice is now between going on with our journey – by some road or other – or returning to Rivendell."

The faces of the hobbits revealed plainly enough the pleasure they felt at the mere mention of returning to Rivendell. Sam's face brightened visibly, and he glanced at his master. But Frodo looked troubled and did not answer at first.

Elladan stirred. "My path leads southwards, to Minas Tirith, not back to my father's house," he said.

Gildor nodded. "So does mine. My people in the South Haven will rejoice in my return, unexpected as it is; and you are all welcome in my town." But Frodo shook his head.

"I wish I was back in Rivendell," he acknowledged. "But would that not be going back upon on all that was spoken and decided there?" he asked.

"It would," replied Gildor bluntly. "Our journey was already delayed long enough; mayhap too long. After the winter, it would be quite in vain. If we return, it will mean the siege of Rivendell, and likely enough its fall and destruction. Elrond has not the strength to resist both the traitor Saruman and the Abhorred One if they decide to go for the Ring."

Arwen and Elladan nodded in grim agreement. They knew better than anyone that great though the powers of their father might be, the Master of Imladris had no vast armies with which to protect his peaceful valley against the Shadow.

"Then we must go on," said Frodo with a sigh, and Sam sank back into gloom. "We must go on – if there is any road to take."

"There is," said Gildor calmly.

"Or there may be," corrected Gandalf. "But I have not mentioned it to you before, and did not think of it while there was still hope of the pass of Taragaer. For it is not a pleasant road."

"If it is worse than the Taragaer, it must be very nasty indeed," muttered Sam. "But you had better tell us about it now."

"Have you ever heard of the Mines of Moria or the Black Gulf?" asked Gandalf.

"Yes," answered Frodo. "I think so. I seem to remember Bilbo speaking of them long ago, when he told me tales of the Dwarves and Orcs. But I have no idea where they are."

"They are not far away," said Gildor quietly, his eyes burning like blue flames in the firelight. "They are in these mountains. They were made by Dwarves of Durin's clan many hundreds of years ago, when Celebrimbor and his Jewel-Smiths still dwelt in Hollin. In those ancient days Durin dwelt in Caron-dun, and there was much traffic on the Great River. But fierce Orcs in great number drove them out after many wars, and most of the Dwarves that escaped removed far into the North, as Gimli could tell you. They have often tried to regain these mines but never have they succeeded – so far as I know ."

He cast a questioning look at Gimli, and the Dwarf shook his head.

"But how can the mines of the Black Gulf help us?" asked Boromir, awaking from his uneasy slumber for a moment. "It sounds a name of ill-omen."

"It is," answered Gandalf with a sigh.

"Or has become so," added Gildor. "But one must tread the path need chooses. If there are Orcs in the mines again, it will prove ill for us, that is true. But there is a chance that the mines are still deserted, and then we may get through. For the mines go right through and under this western arm of the Mountains. There is no shorter way. The tunnels of Moria were of old the most famous in the northern world, and more than once have I passed its secret gates on the western side during the Second Age to leave through the chief entrance in the East that was looking upon Caron-dun, to continue my journey to Edhellond."

"I, too, have passed through the West-Gate, many years ago, when I was looking for Thrór and Thráin," said Gandalf. "But I have never been since – I have never wished to repeat the experience."

"And I do not wish for it even once," said Boromir.

"Nor me," muttered Sam, shooting uncomfortable looks toward his master.

"Of course not," said Gandalf. "Who would? But the question is, will you follow me if I take the risk?"

"Follow _you_?" repeated Gildor with an arrogantly arched eyebrow. "Do you truly believe, Mithrandir, that you would be the most suitable guide?"

Gandalf gave him no answer, and even the silently fuming Aragorn managed to keep his temper under control. All eyes turned to the Ringbearer, as this was ultimately his decision.

"How far is the Western Gate?" asked Frodo at length.

"About ten miles south of the Taragaer," answered Gildor without hesitation, and after a moment Aragorn nodded, confirming his estimate.

"Then you know of Moria?" asked Frodo, looking at the Ranger in surprise.

"Aye, I know of the mines," said Aragorn quietly. "I went there once, too, and the memory is very evil."

"More evil than stumbling South with hungry Warg-packs on our trail?" asked Gildor with a pointed look at Boromir who had fallen asleep again. "I doubt that we would last long. If you want to know, I was always in favour of trying the mines rather than an open pass, but these two," and here he looked at Gandalf and Aragorn, "would not listen. If I had my way, we could have come to the Gate of Moria more secretly and might be leaving on the other side of the Mountains right now."

Frodo glanced from one to another, looking very much like a trapped rabbit, and Sam scowled silently. He found it highly unfair that his master had to make such a hard decision alone, while they were surrounded by Elves and Men much older and  with more experience.

"Well, come now," said Gandalf. "I would not put such a choice to you, if there were any hope in other roads, or any hope in retreat. Will you try Moria, or go back to Rivendell?"

"There _is_ hope in other roads," said Gildor with a shrug; "though even less than through Moria. We could try the Gap of Rohan, after all, and count on the bravery and help of the Horse-lords – but time works against us on that road... or on any other."

As if answering his words, a storm of howls broke out, fierce and wild, all around them. In the waning night many gleaming eyes could be seen peering over the brow of the hill, some advancing right to the ring of stones. A great host of Wargs must have had gathered silently, and now was about to attack them from every side at once.

The Elves grabbed their bows and so did Aragorn, this being their best hope to slay some of the fell beasts from a safe distance. They were so fast that it almost seemed as if they did not take aim at all, yet their arrows hit the blazing eyes or the furry throats of the wolves with deadly accuracy.

Gimli stood, his short legs apart for better leverage, holding his great axe with both hands, protecting Boromir's back, who had pulled himself into a sitting position, his sword drawn. Even the hobbits held their swords defiantly, not willing to give up without a fight.

It took several long moments 'til the wolves could break through, leaping over the corpses of their slain pack-mates. The sword-fight that followed was brutal, and they would have lost in the end, despite all their bravery, if not for Gandalf.

Holding back at first to collect his strength, the old wizard finally stepped forth, lifting a burning branch from the fire and strode straight to the wolves like some ancient fury taking Man-shape. The beasts gave back before him, but he did not miss a beat, following them, tossing the blazing brand high un the air that it threw long, white-hot sparks around.

"_Naur an edraith ammen!_" the voice of Gandalf thundered, echoing from the mountainside. "_Naur dan I ngauroth!_"

The sparkles leapt from the burning branch to the tops of the old trees, so that they burst into fire like huge torches. The blinding flames crackled, bathing the whole hilltop in dazzling light. The shaggy fur of the wolves caught fire; the sparks stuck to their coat and burned deep into them, and unless they rolled over quickly, they were all in flames within a heartbeat.

Very soon, wolves were rolling down the hillside to put out the sparks on their backs, while those that were burning already were running around howling, maddened by the pain and their own blood thirst, setting others alight. Finally, a long, shuddering howl could be hard, like a horn-signal for retreat, and the still hale Wargs fled off down the slopes, vanishing into the night.

Elladan lowered his sword and looked around. The fire had already died, and naught but falling ash and a few dim sparks were left. The old trees had been burned to blackened stumps, and a bitter smoke curled above the stone ring. High above their heads, the first light of dawn came dimly in the sky. Day was coming again, and they were still alive.

"You are a mean fighter," said Boromir when his Elf sat down tiredly. "Better even than I thought you would be. And so is the Lady Arwen. You Elves are deceiving creatures – you look so fragile, yet you are so strong."

"Yet even we need a rest after a fight like this," replied Elladan, leaning against him wearily, while Boromir wrapped those big arms around him. "And Gandalf needs time to regain his strength after those fireworks too, no doubt."

"Let us rest 'til full daylight," Gildor suggested, walking by and giving the old wizard a worried look. "But after that, we must move on as quickly as we can."

The others all agreed and threw themselves on the earth for a much-needed rest, while Gildor, the eldest and most battle-hardened of all, watched their troubled sleep(4).

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) A playful hint towards the meaning of Boromir's name,  _mir meaning jewel._

(2) The Tower of Stars, Celebrimbor's tower in Ost-in-Edhil. My sincerest thanks to Cirdan who invented it and allowed me to use it. :))

(3) Remember, he's the first recorded Steward of Gondor, not the hero of the First Age here.

(4) Yes, I know. Technically, Gandalf is older than Gildor – just not in his present incarnation. My Gildor has been born during the War of Wrath (the end of the First Age) and has walked Middle-earth for more than six thousand years.


	10. Chapter 10: A Walk in the Dark

**SEAL ON MY HEART**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** see Introduction

**Warning:** this story contains implied m/m interaction – don't read it if it's not your thing.

**Rating:** G, for this chapter

**Author's notes:**

In case you are bewildered by Aragorn's behaviour, consider the fact that he was under the lure of the Ring, just like the others. No, I am not trying to make him a villain. I am just trying to make him a mere mortal instead of the infallible super hero.

This chapter has not been beta-red yet. Let us hope the spellchecker and the grammar checker did a good job.

**Dedication:** Yes, Isabeau, this is still your story.  :)

CHAPTER TEN: A WALK IN THE DARK 

Finally, the full light of the morning came, and no signs of the wolves were to be found, nor could they see anywhere the corpses of the dead beasts. The only traces of the brutal fight were the charred trees, the scorched spots of grass on the hillside and the Elven arrows lying all around them, undamaged.

"_Gaurhoth_, or Wargs as the Northmen call them, are no ordinary wolves," explained Gildor to the agitated hobbits patiently. "They are the descendants of the evil werewolves, which appeared in Middle-earth during the First Age and remained a plague to the wilderness 'til the end of the Second. The last true _Gaurhoth_ were slain in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad when they lost their evil strength with the fall of Sauron."

"But where have their bodies gone?" asked Sam.

"Wargs, like Orcs, fear the Sun," answered Gildor, "and their bodies disintegrate in the sunlight when killed. This is a trait they inherited from their skin-changing ancestors(1)."

"Can Wargs, too, turn into Men?" Sam was obviously frightened by the possibility. Gildor shook his head.

"Nay, they cannot. Do not be afraid. They are just evil beasts, nothing more."

"So they will not return in the night?" Sam was still not completely persuaded.

"Nothing slain by my hand has ever returned," replied Gildor with a hard glint in his eyes. "Be comforted, little master, we shall not see those Wargs again."

"But we might see their friends if we do not hurry up," said Gandalf. "Let us eat and go on. Quickly."

As no hobbit ever refused an offer to eat, the suggestion was followed. Gildor and Aragorn went forth to scout out their way for a while, and Elladan retired Boromir's shield. The others readied the pack animals in the meantime.

"Boromir should ride my horse," said Gildor, after returning, "or he would slow us down too much. If we want to reach the Gate of Moria at all, we must reach them before sunset."

"Are you certain that you can find the way?" asked Gandalf doubtfully. "It has been a long time since the fall of Eregion; the face of the whole country could have changed in an Age and a half. And Aragorn cannot guide us, either, for he has seldom walked the paths of these lands."

"Worry not," replied Gildor, "for I have visited Moria many times, even after the fall of Eregion, and know these paths well. They are winding, but the Gate is not far, and we can reach it by sunset, if we do not tarry any longer."

The others accepted his words, and soon they were on their way again, Boromir sitting high upon Gildor's horse, while some of the baggage had been removed from the good beast and loaded onto the ponies.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

All the day they had heard no sound and seen no sign of any living thing. As soon as the light began to fade they started off again. A light rain was still falling, but it troubled them little, even though it soaked their hair and garments and made the way slippery. But after an hour the clouds broke and the rain stopped. The sun came out in gleams. The hobbits broke out in delighted little cries Gandalf was concerned by the delay, and urged them to move on.

They steered now straight back towards the mountains, but both Gandalf and Gildor were much puzzled by their failure to find the Gate-stream that should have been running not far from their present path. They asked the others to take a short rest 'til they took a look around, and after a while they had come back again to the foothills and lower slopes they struck a narrow watercourse in a deep channel; but it was dry, and there was now no water among the reddish stones in the bed. There _was_, however, still something like an open path on the left bank. They stopped at once and looked at each other in askance.

"That is where the stream used to run, of that I am certain," said Gildor. "Sirannon, the Gate-stream they used to call it. And our road lies up this course," he pointed out the path on the other side.

The night was now falling, but though they were already tired, especially the hobbits, Gandalf urged them to press on. So, on they went, with slurring feet but rising hopes, into the deepening darkness.

Before the night was old the moon rose through the clouds that lay on the eastern peaks, and shone fitfully down over the western lands. They trudged on with their weary feet stumbling among the stones, until suddenly they came to a wall of rock some thirty feet high. Over it ran a trickling fall of water, but plainly the fall had once been much stronger.

"Here we are at last," said Gildor, relieved. "This is where the Stair-falls were. I wonder what happened to them. Still, there has to be a stairway cut in the stone at the left: the main path goes further round and up an incline. There is wide and shallow valley above the falls through which the Sirannon flowed."

After some looking, they found the stairway, and followed by Frodo and Arwen, Gildor climbed quickly up. The others, save Boromir and Sam who hated high places, followed them slowly. When they got to the top they discovered the reason of the drying up of the stream.

In the now bright moonlight they saw a dark, still lake, stretched before their feet. The Gate-stream had been dammed, and had filled the entire valley. Only a trickle of water escaped over the old falls, for the main outlet of the lake was now away at the southern end, from whence they heard the splash of running water.

Before them, dim and grey across the dark water, stood a vast cliff face, sheer and brooding, rising above them and before them, away into the mists. The moonlight lay pale upon it, and it looked cold and forbidding: a final bar to all passage. Frodo could see no sign of any gate or entrance in the frowning stone.

"This way is blocked," said Gandalf, stating the obvious unhappily. "At least as far as it can be seen at night.

"We must try and find a way round by the main path then," replied Gildor.  "We cannot swim across the lake by moonlight – or any other light. It has an unwholesome look... Besides, we need some means to get Boromir up here safely."

They had no great difficulty in finding the old path. It turned away from the falls and wound northward for some way, before bending east again, and climbed up a long slope. When they reached the top of this they saw the lake laying on the right. The path skirted its very edge, but was not submerged. For the most part it was just above the water; but in one place, at the northernmost end of the lake, where there was a slimy and stagnant pool, it disappeared for a short distance, before bending south again toward the foot of the great cliff.

 "Well, here we are at last!'' said Gandalf. "This is the end of our path – and now I am afraid we must say farewell to our ponies."

Gildor nodded in agreement. "The good beasts would go almost everywhere we told them to; but I do not think we could get them to go into the dark passages of Moria. Not even my horse, perhaps, though she would do anything I ask her. But there is a limit for what even the most faithful beast can do, even if they want to. And in any case there are behind the west gate many steep stairs, and many difficult and dangerous places where ponies could not pass, or would be a perilous handicap. If we are to win through we must travel lighter. Much of the stuff we have brought against bitter weather will not be wanted inside, now when we get to the other side and turn south."

When each member of the party had been given a share according to his size – most of the foodstuffs and the waterskins – the remainder was secured again on the ponies' backs. In each bundle Gandalf put a brief message to Elrond written in secret runes, telling him of the snowstorm and their turning aside to Moria.

Then Sam and Gildor led the horses off. Gildor whispered something in the ear of his mare, patted her neck and sent her on her way. He was certain she would find the way back to Rivendell and bring the ponies there unharmed, too.

"Now let us have a look at the gates!" said Gandalf.

"I do not see any gates," complained Sam.

"Dwarf-gates are invisible when closed," grunted Gimli, inwardly cursing the secretive ways of his people, certain that – being the only Dwarf present – the others will blame _him_ for this new and rather unpleasant obstacle.

"True," nodded Gildor, "yet these particular doors had been made for the use of Celebrimbor's people, therefore they were not a secret, not even back in the Second Age. They had been made of _ithildin_; a silver substance that is seen only when touched by one who knows certain words – at night under the moon they shine most bright. Mithrandir, I believe 'tis your turn now. I cannot make the Gates visible."

Gandalf approached the rock between two twisted trees, running his hand over the cliff face, and as the travellers stared at it, it seemed to them that on the surface where Gandalf's hand had passed faint lines appeared like slender veins of silver running in the stone.

"Now... let us see," he murmured, trying to remember some forgotten piece of old lore "_Ithildin_… It mirrors only starlight... and moonlight.

He looked up at the black night sky; the moon appeared. Framed by the sharp shadows of the two trees, the silvery lines grew bright, shining with sheer white light. They outlined a door formed of two columns beneath an arch with a star in the centre. Writing in a strange tongue appeared in the arch. Gimli stared in awe at the gate of his forefathers.

"These are the emblems of Durin and of the Elves," said Gandalf, pointing with his gnarled staff. "Now you can see that we have certainly found the west gate of Moria."

"What does the writing say?" asked Frodo, who was trying to puzzle out the inscription. "I thought I knew the Elf-letters, but I cannot read these, they are so tangled."

"Nothing of much importance to us," said Gandalf. "At least not the opening-spell, if that is what you are thinking. They merely say: The doors of Durin Lord of Moria. Speak friends and enter. And underneath very small and now faint is: Narfi made them.(2) Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.''

"What does it mean by 'speak friends and enter'?" asked Frodo.

"That is plain enough,'' Gandalf shrugged. "If you are friends speak the password, and then the door will open and you can enter."

"No, not truly," Gildor shook his head. " Some Dwarf-gates will open only at special times, of for particular persons; and some have keys and locks which are necessary even when all other conditions are fulfilled. In the days of Durin these gates were not secret: they usually stood open and door-wards sat here. But if they were shut anyone who knew the opening words could peak them and pass in."

"Do you know them then?" asked Frodo anxiously. Gildor nodded.

"Why, certainly. Mithrandir, if you would touch that star with your staff for me…" When the wizard obeyed, the Elf-Lord looked up to the gate and called a single word in a clear, ringing voice. "_Mellon_!"

The star shone briefly and went out again. Then silently a great door was outlined, though not the finest crack or joint had been visible before. Slowly, the stone door began to swing outwards, inch by inch, until it lay right back against the wall. Behind, the foot of a shadowy stairway could be seen. All the party stood and stared in wonder.

 "Lord Gildor, we owe you our gratitude," the wizard said. "I might have needed a long time to figure out that the opening word was inscribed there all the time."

Gildor gave him a brief nod. "Let us enter the Mines," he said, "we have but little time."

The others moved hesitatingly toward the gate, fear and wonder fighting in their hearts. And at that moment Frodo felt something seize his ankle and he fell. At the same moment Sam and Aragorn who had just come back gave a yell as they ran up. Turning suddenly, the others saw that a long, glistening tentacle was thrust out from the lake's dark edge, its fingered end taking hold of Frodo's foot and dragging him towards the water.

Instinct told Boromir to turn back and hurry to the Ringbearer's aid, but his wounded leg gave in and he almost fell. Fortunately, Sam did not hesitate to dash up with a drawn knife and slash at the tentacle, even though his knife could do little more than distracting the… creature, whatever it might be. Still, this gave Aragorn and Elladan the time to run to Frodo and attack the tentacle with their swords, while Arwen drew her bow, ready to shoot.

The fingers let go of Frodo, and Sam dragged him away; but immediately the waters of the lake began to heave and boil, and twenty more tentacles came ripping out, making for the travellers as if directed by something in the deep pools that could see them all.

"To the gateway! Quick! Up the stairs!" shouted Gandalf, rousing them from the horror that held them rooted for a moment.

There was just time. Gandalf saw them all inside, and then sprang back upon the heels of Gildor, but he was no more than four steps up when the crawling tentacles of the dweller in the pool reached the cliff. Gildor pushed along the others, his sword drawn, to defend Elladan and Boromir who were falling back, but the tentacles did not attack them. Instead, they seized the door, and swung it round with a force none of them could hope to resist. 

With a shattering echo it slammed behind them; and sounds of rending and crashing came dolly through the stone from outside. Elladan they halted on stairs, leaning Boromir against the rock wall, listening. Gandalf ran down to the door and thrust up and spoke the words, but though the door groaned, it did not stir.

"There is no use, Mithrandir," said Gildor calmly. "I believe the trees are thrown down across it, and boulders have been rolled against it. Now, we can only go on – there is nothing left to do."

"I felt that something evil was near," murmured Frodo. "What was it, Gandalf?"

"I could not say," admitted Gandalf. "Mayhap something that has crept, or been driven out of the dark waters under ground. There are older and fouler things than goblins in the dark places of the world."

He did not speak aloud the thought that the Dweller in the Pool had not seized on Frodo among all the party by accident. But he saw Gildor's concerned look resting on the hobbit's face, and the Elf-Lord nodded briefly to his unspoken remark.

"We must go on, Mithrandir," he reminded the wizard again. "Our time is running short with every moment we spend tarrying here."

Gandalf could not agree more, and the others, too, wanted to bring this dark journey behind them as quickly as possible. Thus they gathered on the steps, following the pale glow of the wizard's staff, ready to continue their way into the deep darkness of the Mines.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gildor now went ahead, being the one with the best knowledge about the Mines, and Gandalf remained on his side, allowing his wand to glow faintly to prevent them from walking into unseen dangers in the dark. But the great stairway was sound and undamaged. There were two hundred steps, broad and shallow, and Boromir clomb them with great effort, supported by Elladan. At the top they finally found the floor level before them and all sighed in relief.

"Let us have something to eat here on the landing, as there is little chance to find a dining-room," said Frodo. He had recovered from the terror of the clutching arm, and was feeling unusually hungry. The idea was welcome to all. After they had eaten, Gandalf again gave them a taste of the cordial.

"It shall not last much longer," he said, "but I think we need it after that business at the gate. And we shall need all that is left before we get through, unless we have luck. Go carefully with the water too! There are streams and wells in the Mined, but they should not be touched. We shall not get a chance of filling our bottles till we come down in Dunruin.(3)

"How long are we going to take to get through?" asked Frodo.

"It all depends on our speed and secrecy," answered Gildor. "But going straight (without mishaps) we should take at least three or four marches. It is more than forty miles from the West-doors to East gate in a straight line, and passages may have been changed or re-routed since I had entered the Mines the last time."

They rested now only for a short while, as they were all willing, tired as they were, to go on still for several hours. Even Boromir preferred to go on, despite the growing pain in his leg. As before, Gildor went in front and with him went Gandalf, holding his wand, the pale light of which was sufficient to show the ground before their feet. Gildor held his great sword in his right had, a sword, which he had inherited from his great-grandfather Finarfin, who still ruled the Noldor Elves in Valinor. No gleam came from the blade – which was some comfort; for being a sword of ancient Elvish make it shone with a cold light if goblins were at hand.

He led them forward first along the passage in which they had halted. As the light of Gandalf's wand dimly lit their dark openings, other passages and tunnels could be seen or guessed: sloping up, or running steeply down, or turning suddenly round hidden corners. It was most bewildering. Gildor was guided mainly by his general sense of direction, but his memories proved still sharp, and he found his way unerringly, to the great astonishment of the hobbits and to Aragorn's grudging respect.

Boromir cared little for their route. His wounded leg was giving him great pain; the mere walking had become an almost impossible task. He was supported not by Elladan only, but by Arwen, too, who had left Aragorn's side to allow him to lean on her slender but surprisingly strong shoulder. Gimli fell back to protect the Company's rear, as Gildor knew his way through the Mines a lot better anyway. Aragorn remained with the hobbits, urging them forward and helping them climbing over the occasional obstacle in their way.

And it was good so, if they wanted to reach the other side of the Mines without any disaster. For there were in many places pits at the sides of the tunnel, and dark wells in which far under the gurgling of water could be heard. Rotting strands of rope dangled above them from broken winches. There were dangerous chasms and fissures in the rock, and sometimes a chasm would open right across their path.

But thank to the keen eyes of the Elves and Aragorn himself, they managed to avoid all those pitfalls, stumbling along their seemingly endless way in the dark. They had been going for many hours, with brief halts, when they came to a wide dark arch opening into three passages: all three led in the same general direction, East, but the left hand passage seemed to plunge down, the right hand to climb up, while the middle way seemed to run level, but was very narrow.

"I have no memory of this place at all!" said Gandalf, standing uncertainly under the arch. 

"This is one of the major forks on the inner paths," replied Gildor. "We had better halt here for the night. The little folk must be bone-weary, and Boromir is obviously in much pain. Can you give us just a little more light, Mithrandir? We must find a place for our rest that is better protected than an open gateway."

Gandalf nodded, increasing the light of his stab for a shade, so that they could at least cast a look around. To the left of the great arch was a lower opening, and when they explored it closer they discovered that it was a stone door that was half closed, but swung back easily to a gentle thrust. Beyond it there seemed to be a chamber or chambers cut in the rock.

"Wait, my friends!" said Gildor, as Sam and Frodo pushed forward, glad to find somewhere where they could rest with some sort of security. "Hold back! You know not what may be inside. I will go first."

He went cautiously in, followed by Gandalf, who provided him with as much light as he dared.

"There!" the wizard said, pointing with his wand to the middle of the floor. They saw before their feet a round hole like the mouth of a well, Rotting strands of rope lay at the edge and trailed down into the dark pit; fragment of broken stone lay near.

"One of you might have fallen in and still be waiting to hit the bottom," said Gildor to Sam. "Look before your feet! I can remember now: this was a guard-room, placed to watch those passages," he went on. "The hole, I expect, is a well, and was once covered with a stone lid. But that is broken now, and you had better be careful of the fall."

The others filed in one after another, slowly and carefully, and started making beds of blankets in dark corners of the room, as far as possible from the well. The hobbits rolled themselves into several blankets and cuddled together, falling asleep ere they could even find the most comfortable position.

Gildor took the first watch, saying that he needed less sleep than the others, even Arwen and Elladan, being older and more hardened than Elrond's children. Besides, he had not had to carry part of Boromir's weight all the way along. The other Elves agreed, and after Arwen had done what she could to ease Boromir's pain and to tend his wound (which was fairly little under the circumstances), they lay down to rest, too, warming the wounded and weary Man from both sides, to Aragorn's great dismay. Gimli was snoring near the hobbits already, but Gandalf sat quietly a little aside, thinking hard about the path before them, and Aragorn, too, sat aside, morosely and alone, brooding in the dark.

The throbbing pain in his leg kept Boromir awake, though, no matter how weary he was, so he simply lay there, soaking up the body heat of the two Elves on his side gratefully and watched Gildor from half-closed eyes.

For a while, the Elf-Lord sat motionless like a statue, dangerously close to the well – it seemed not to bother him at all, though Boromir itself had the irrational feeling as if some old and vile creature would creep out of that dark hole any moment. Then, after some time, Gildor pulled the fine golden chain from under his tunic again. He opened the tiny lock of the pendant and looked at whatever might be inside it with and expression of deep sorrow.

To his surprise, Boromir now saw Aragorn rise and walk over to Gildor. The two began to talk in low voices. What they were talking about, Boromir could not understand, but the few fragments he was able to catch were in Elvish, and the tone of their conversation was less than friendly. Boromir felt Arwen tense up on her side, and soon he felt Elladan's mind return to awareness, too. The more they were together, the stronger he could feel the changes in Elladan's mood, even though exchanging thoughts still cost them considerable effort.

Gildor and Aragorn still kept their voices low, but their argument seemed to heat up. Arwen left Boromir's side, determined to separate them ere something happened that both would regret. Aragorn seemed to be in a strange mood lately, and Gildor's manners were able to bring out the worst in a Man on his best days.

"After six thousand years, he still cannot learn how to handle mortals," murmured Elladan, as if reading his sister's mind. Arwen shook her head.

"Oh, he usually can. He just delights in provoking Estel – which is not a wise thing. Even less so now, under the Ring's lure."

"Then you better go," said Elladan quietly, "for it can easily come to swords between them, irritated as they both are with the bad turns of our luck… and with each other."

Indeed, at this very moment, Aragorn raised his voice in anger. Not much, but enough that even Boromir could understand.

"You have had your chance and you missed it," he said, and his voice was so frighteningly cold that Boromir shivered. "Now back off and do not meddle with her life again, or you will regret it."

Boromir shot a bewildered look at Elladan. "What is happening to Aragorn? I admit I am not very fond of him, but I have never seen him behave like this."

"'Tis the Ring," answered Elladan sadly. "Can you not feel its pull growing stronger? Estel is a good man, but in the end, he is only a man, like the others. He is not warded against the evil that has been hammered into that cursed thing. No-one is."

They had missed Gildor's reply, but if the arrogant smile of the Elf-Lord was any indication, it had to be truly insulting, for Aragorn paled so much that it could be seen even in the pale gleam of Gandalf's staff. Then – so quickly that Boromir could rather guess his move than actually see – the Ranger stooped and yanked the golden chain from Gildor's neck.

"You think yourself so much better than the rest of us," he said, with a nasty smile on his face, holding the little pendant on his broken chain above the well, "yet you were not even able to reach the one you are still pining after in time to save him."

"Estel," said Gildor warningly, his voice cold as ice, "mind your manners, youngster. Give me back what is mine!"

"Or what?" asked Aragorn, an ugly light gleaming in his otherwise kind and stern eyes. "You slay me?"

"I can be persuaded," replied Gildor coolly, and Boromir saw in his eyes that he meant it.

Yet Aragorn, mayhap due to the pull of the Ring on his mind, was beyond reason already. He simply laughed at Gildor, saying, "Go to Mandos after your dead lover, you cold fish!" and let the broken chain slip from his hand.

Only the incredible Elven speed of Arwen saved Aragorn's life in that moment. In a blur of soft grey leathers, Arwen threw herself before Aragorn and right in the way of a beautifully carved throwing knife that was aimed right at the Ranger's throat. The knife hit Arwen in the shoulder, slicing into her leather tunic and revealing the chain mail made of _mithril_ that she wore underneath.

All this occurred in less than a minute – then far below was a _plunk_, as if the small pendant had fallen into deep water in a cavernous place – very distant, but magnified and repeated in the hollow rock.

"What is that?" cried Gandalf. When Arwen revealed what Aragorn had done, the wizard became very angry, but for some reason he did not say anything, just looked at the Ranger with dark, enraged eyes that would have made a dragon shiver. Then he bent over the well and listened.

There was nothing to hear for several minutes; but then there came out of the depths faint knocks, that stopped, and were dimly echoed, and then after a short silence were repeated. It sounded strangely like signals of some sort. But after a while the knocks died away altogether and were heard no more.

"It may have nothing to do with Aragorn's foolish deed," Gandalf finally said; "and in any case it may have nothing to do with us – but of course it may be anything. Let us hope we get some rest undisturbed. And try to behave according the graveness of our situation. All of you."

The others nodded in grim agreement. After a while it was decided that Gandalf would take over watching, as he needed to think anyway. Gildor retreated into the farthest corner of the chamber, as far from Aragorn as possible, pulled his cloak tightly around himself and sat there with burning eyes and no expression on his pale face at all. It seemed as if something had broken inside of him. The others returned to their bedrolls and were soon asleep, despite the recent events, finally succumbing to the need of their weary limbs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Gandalf who roused them from sleep. He had watched all alone for about six hours and let the others rest.

"And in the meantime I have made up my mind," he said. "I do not like the feel of the middle way, and I do not like the smell of the left hand – there is foul air down there I deem. We shall take the right hand way – 'tis time we began to go up again – if Lord Gildor agrees."

Gildor nodded listlessly and moved on, as soon as the others had eaten. He refused to eat himself, and there was something in his eyes that kept the others from arguing. For eight dark hours, not counting two brief halts, they marched on, and met no danger, and heard nothing, and saw nothing but the faint gleam of the wizard's light bobbing like a will-o'-the-wisp in front of them.

The passage they had chose wound steadily upwards, going, as far as they could judge, in great curves, and growing steadily wider. On neither side were there now any openings to other galleries or tunnels, and the floor, though rough in many places, was sound and without pits or cracks. Even Boromir could go on with surprisingly little pain, though he needed both Arwen and Elladan to support him now, while Gimli was carrying his shield. Aragorn walked at the rear his face blank and his eyes darkened.

They went quicker than the day before, and must have cowered some twenty miles or more, perhaps fifteen in a straight line eastwards. As they went upwards Frodo's spirits rose a little; but still he felt oppressed, and still at times he heard or thought he heard away behind and through the patter of their own feet a following footfall that was not an echo. Also, the near-fatal quarrel between Aragorn and Gildor concerned him greatly, more so as both he and Sam liked the Ranger as well as the Elf-Lord. He feared that ere their quest came to an end, there would be even more such fights. He felt the pull of the Ring growing stronger himself and wanted to get out of Moria as soon as possible.

They had gone nearly as far as the hobbits could endure without rest and sleep, and they were all thinking of a place to halt for the night, when suddenly the walls to right and left vanished. They halted. Gandalf seemed well pleased.

"I think we have reached the habitable parts," he said, "and are no great way from the eastern side. I can feel a change in the air, and guess we are in a wide hall. I think I will risk a little light."

He raised his wand and for a brief moment it blazed out like a flash of lightning. Great shadows leapt up and fled, and for a second or two they saw a vast roof high above their heads. On every side stretched a huge empty hall with straight hewn walls. Four entrances they glimpsed: dark arches in the walls: one at the west by which they had come, one before them in the east, and one on either side. Then the light went out.

"That is all I shall venture on for the present,' said the wizard. "Gildor, can you tell us where we might be?"

"There used to be great windows on the mountain-side, and shafts leading out to the light and the upper reaches of the mines," answered Gildor flatly. "I think that is where we are. But it is night now, and we cannot tell till morning. If I am right, tomorrow we may actually see the morning peering in."

The hobbits exchanged delighted looks at that, and even Arwen and Elladan seemed relieved. This endless walking in the dark made them uncomfortable.

"In the meanwhile we had better go no further without exploration," said Gandalf. "There will still be a good way to go before we are through – the East Gates are on a much lower level than this, and it is a long road down. Let us rest if we can."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They spent that night in the great empty hall, huddled in a corner to escape the draught – there seemed to be a steady flow of chill air in through the eastern archway. The vastness and immensity of the tunnels and excavations filled the hobbits with bewilderment.

"There must have been a mighty tribe o' Dwarves here at one time," said Sam; "and every one as busy as a badger for e hundred years to make all this – and most in hard rock too. What did they do it all for? They did not live in these darksome holes, surely?"

"Not for long," answered Gildor, "though the miners often took long spells underground, I believe. They found precious metals, and jewels – very abundantly in the earlier days. But the mines were most renowned for the metal which was only found here in any quantity: Moria-silver or true-silver as some call it. We call it _mithril_, and the Jewel-smiths of Nan-eregdos(4) valued it still above gold."

"Why?" asked Sam innocently. He did not understand much of riches and smithcraft, but now his curiosity was picked, and he looked up at the Elf-Lord in childlike admiration. Gildor actually smiled at him – 'twas a weak and pale smile but a smile nevertheless.

"For it is feather-light, and malleable as copper, but the Dwarves could by some secret of theirs make it as hard as steel. It surpasses common silver in all save beauty, and even in that it is its equal. In their day the Dwarf-Lords of Uruktharbun(5) were more wealthy than any of the Kings of Men."

"Well, _we_ have not clapped eyes on any kind of silver since we came in,' grunted Sam; "nor any jewels neither. Nor on any Dwarves."

"I think not we are likely until we get further up and nearer to the eastern entrances," said Gimli. But Gildor only looked at him with compassionate eyes and answered not.

"I hope we do find Dwarves in the end,' said Frodo. "I would give a great deal to see old Balin. Bilbo was fond of him, and would be delighted to have news of him. He visited him in Hobbiton once long ago, but that was before I went to live there."

Again, Gildor answered not, and they settled for the night. Boromir insisted to take his turn to watch, just like everyone else, pointing our reasonably that he would not need his legs for sitting and listening. Besides, the pain would keep him awake anyway.

As silence fell and one by one the others fell asleep he felt the strange dread assail him again. But though he listened endlessly through the slow hours till he was relieved he heard no sound of any footfall. Only once, far away where he guessed the western archway stood, he fancied he saw two pale points of light – almost like luminous eyes.

He startled. "I must have nearly fallen asleep," he thought; "I was on the edge of a dream."

He rubbed his eyes and moved his wounded leg, so that the pain would keep him from falling asleep, peering into the dark until he was relieved by Gimli. He limped back to Elladan's side and finally fell asleep, burrowing himself into Elladan's arms like a child. It was strangely comforting – no-one had held him in his sleep since he had left his mother's care. Here, under the cloak of darkness, he allowed himself the rare luxury to be weak.

He woke surprisingly well rested and found that the others were speaking softly near him, and that a dim light was actually falling on his face. High up above the eastern arch, through a shaft near the roof, came a grey gleam. And across the hall through the northern arch light also glimmered faint and distantly.

He sat up. "Good morning!" said Gandalf. "For morning it is again at last. I was right, you see. Before today is over we ought to get to the Eastern Gate and see the waters of Helevorn in the Dimrilldale before us."(6)

All the same, Gildor felt some doubt as to their exact position – they might be far to the north or the south of the Gates. Moria was much too intricately built, even for his flawless Elven memory. He had not visited the Mines since the fall of the Dwarven Kingdom, and that had been more than thousand years ago.(7)

The eastern arch was the most likely exit to choose, and the draught that flowed through it seemed to promise a passage leading before long to the outer air; but beyond the opening there was no trace of light.

"If I could only see out of one of these shafts," the Elf-Lord said, "I should know better what to do. We might wander backwards and forwards endlessly, and just miss the way out. We had better explore a little before we start. And let us go first towards the light."

 As the only light cane from under the northern arch, they passed through there and went down a wide corridor; and as they went the glimmer of light grew stronger. Turning a sharp corner they came to a great door on their right. It was half open, and beyond there was a large square chamber. It was only dimly lit, but to their eyes, after so long in the dark, it seemed almost dazzlingly light, and they blinked as they entered. Their feet disturbed deep dust and stumbled amongst things laying on the floor within the doorway whose shapes they could not at first make out.

They saw now that a wide shaft high up in the far wall lighted the chamber – it slanted upwards and far above a small square patch of sky could be seen where it issued outwards. The light fell directly on a table in the midst of the chamber, a square block some three feet high upon which was laid a great slab of whitened stone.

"It looks like a tomb!' muttered Frodo, and went forward to look at it more closely with a curious sense of foreboding. Gandalf came quickly to his side. On the slab was deeply cut in Runes:

BALIN SON OF BURIN(8) LORD OF MORIA

Gandalf and Frodo looked at one another, their eyes full of shared memories and of sorrow.

"He is dead then. I feared it somehow," said Frodo.

Gimli fell to his knees before the tomb of his uncle and wept. Shaken out of his dispassionate mood, Gildor stepped up to him and laid a comforting hand upon his shaking back. Thusly they stood for some time, and naught else but Gimli's deep sobs could be heard.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) This is by no means sure, of course. I just wanted to find a reason for their disappearance as the question has bothered me ever since I read the Books for the first time.

(2) The former spelling of Narvi.

(3) Early name of the Dimrill dale. I assumed it was named thusly by Men.

(4) Early name of Eregion.

(5) Old name for Khazad-dûm.

(6) Early name of the Mirrormere. I assumed it was named thusly by Men.

(7) Between 1981-1999, Third Age, depending which event we consider "the fall" of Moria.

(8) It took some time until Fundin was established as Balin's father. For a while, Burin was the son of Balin, before he got rejected completely.


End file.
